Entrance Class of 1998
by 0902FRIENDs
Summary: Katherine Walters is a perceptive and lively 11-year-old living in Manchester. However, as their neighbours return from a long trip on May 3rd, 1998, Katherine discovers that she, and her family, are pushed towards the collision point of three distinctly different worlds. What sparkles could result from her adventure? And what do Harry's lot have to do in the Walters' lives?
1. 1 The First Sunny Day

1: The First Sunny Day

I toss and turn. At first, I'm convinced that I am ill. After all, I'd been playing rugby with my brother in the rain all day yesterday, and it wouldn't be a surprise if I do fall ill today. But then I realise that my head, nose and throat are all fine. In fact, apart from the tiredness resulted from the lack of sleep, I feel rather good - better and happier than I've been feeling for ages. It is as if some important deed is finally completed, and here I am, lying awake in the middle of the night.

Except… Is it the middle of the night?

I opened my eyes. The bright, golden morning sun shines right into them, and I shut my eyelids firmly out of reflex. You see, after years of fog, mist, overcast and smog, I lost the habit of closing my bedroom curtains before I go to sleep, and now, I'm happily paying for it.

Still keeping my eyes shut, I move my eyeballs gently, trying to get rid of the purple, orange and green blurs in my vision. I succeed with minimal effort, and open my eyes again, slowly and carefully, allowing my pupils to adjust as I embrace the first ray of the morning sun.

It's really early. I know that from the big golden spot at the bottom of my door, upon which my window is projected by the sun. I also know that it will likely be sunny throughout the day: the blue sky is so clear that there is no patches of white cloud for what looks like miles. To get a clearer view of the town, I sit up, walk across the room, climb onto my desk and look out of the window. Outside, everything bathed contently under the morning sun, and it seems that the houses, roads, lawns and trees are covered by a magical layer of cheerfully boiling golden yarn. The corners of my lips tug up as I become electrified, and I dash out of my room.

"Ma! Dad! Ge(1)!" I shout as I sprint down the stairs, "Get up! Get up now! It's SUNNY today!"

I jump on the last of the stairs as I screamed the last few words. Unable to control the excitement bouncing inside me, I sprint upstairs again, shake off the lock of the door across my room, and burst into my brother's room. As I expect, he is still in bed, but clearly awake - he's got that 'I know you're here but I don't want you here so I'll just pretend to sleep' look on him. It usually works well for Mum and Dad, but I have long learned to ignore that. I run to his bed, crouch slightly, and jump. As always, I land on his bare torso with my flat belly.

"For heaven's sake, Qian'er(2)!" he groans and reaches for his glasses, "You're 11 and I'm almost 14, can't you just give me one minute of tranquility?"

"Not if you and I are both alive on this world," I say, climbing down to give him a chance to get up, "It's sunny out there."

"As wild as your imagination goes," my brother covers his mouth and yawns, "There's no such thing called sun in Manchester… It's ten after five," he holds up his right hand, checks his watch and informs me tiredly, "I'm going back to bed - and leave me alone!"

My brother sinks into his bed again, this time remembering to pull up his covers. But I am never defeated, so I sneak up to his desk, and yank the curtain open with force. The hooks protest against the steel track, and the whole thing threatens to give in, but they always do when I yank the curtains, so I'm not afraid of getting into trouble. My brother, however, is in deep trouble.

"Bloody hell!" he yelps. I turn my head to see him covering his eyes with his hands, but before I can call him foul for using that language, he continues, "Don't do that, Qian'er! You nearly blinded me!"

"Then admit that I'm right!" I smile triumphantly. My arms are crossed and my back is straight, as if I just came off the field with my team winning the cup.

"Fine, fine, it's sunny today! Now, would you please do me a favour and close my curtains, gently, s'il vous plaît!"

He sounds truly exasperated, and I know I'm approaching a line. So I sigh dramatically, and close the thinner layer not so gently.

"Thats better," my brother breaths, putting his hands off his face, "And please don't jump on me again, Qian'er. You've got no idea how scary it feels."

"Only if you behave," I retort slyly. My smile grows wider as he finally opens his eyes again, pokes his head inbetween the curtains and peaks out to see the day.

"Blimey," I hear him whisper, "It _is_ sunny, Qian'er… It's been… two, three years?"

I shrug silently. I know he can't see me from the back of his head, but I won't be of any use. To be honest, I don't remember when the last sunny day was. All I know is that we went to a picnic in the Sale Water Park with the Portleys, and the adults were talking about secondary schools for my brother and his friend. So that must have been…

"Almost two years," he answers his own question, "since _my_ primary school leaving tea… So that's twenty two months..." he pulls his head back to the room, and turns to study the calendar, "and three days."

And I remember. Two years ago on the last day of June, we attended my brother's leaving tea, and went to the Sale Water Park afterwards. I don't remember that day because it was fulfilled with boredom. Dad and Mr Portley each had to leave before long, the boys wouldn't let me join their lakeside adventure, and I wasn't allowed to swim alone. So I sat at the bank and listened to Mrs Portley rumbling about the benefits of Public schools and my mum politely refusing to send us anywhere but Newall Green High.

It is not that my parents can't afford to send us to Public or State schools. In fact, my mum had looked up every famous Public and State school when my brother was only starting day schools. She wanted to start early and know what she was facing, she told us after dad revealed this the other day. My mum was right. It turned out that all those posh schools are prejudiced against diversity and freedom to choose - two things my family values dearly - so after lots of talking, we decided that both of us are going to Newall Green for it is the nearest from home. Mum and Dad say we can always transfer to more suited and specialised schools as we want, whatever that means.

"And you know what that means, Qian'er," my brother's hopeful voice brings me out of my musings, "You can ask for a picnic, preferably with the Portleys!"

"Even when we haven't seen them for months? Terrific idea, Andy," I roll my eyes at him because I don't think I have successfully mustered a sarcastic tone, "But why do I ask them? It's you who wants a picnic!"

"Well, you know," he clears his throat and stands straight, suddenly looking so grown-up, "You don't ask your parents for anything when you're almost fourteen!"

"Your birthday's in four months," I deadpan mercilessly, "It's May 3rd -" I double check the calendar, "- and your birthday won't be another four months and six days. So you're not 'almost fourteen'."

"There's no need to be so sharp, Qian'er." It is his turn to roll his eyes. He opens his mouth to defend himself, but the door opens and we turn around.

"Everything all right?" Dad stood tiredly at the door, a panicked look on his face and his night gowns are dishevelled, "We heard you scream, Kathy -"

"Yes, dad. Sorry for the scare," I say sincerely. Then I look up and smile again, pointing at the window with a nod of my head, "The sun's out."

* * *

"Sunny day, eh?" Mum says as we sit down for breakfast, "Got any plans, you lot?"

My brother and I look at each other before smiling with all the silliness in the world, ignoring the Tofu Nao(3) mum had dished out for us. Fortunately, Dad is already talking about all the possible family activities we could do with 14 hours of sunshine.

"We can go to the May Fair," I chime in, earning a kick under the table from my brother. Kicking back mercilessly, I take a bite of my tofu and continue, "It's opening today, and we haven't seen its opening in ages!"

"Wonderful idea, Qian'er," mum says, handing me a hard boiled egg - made from her secret tea recipe. I take it, so she turns to my brother, "What about you, Andy?"

"I dunno, I might go and play football with Peter's lot," he says, though I know he wants the picnic really bad. I poke him to say 'you're helpless and I won't help you,' and I think he understands.

"Can you think of anything that includes the whole family?" Dad asks, "It's Sunday, after all."

"Well," my brother says seriously, "You can all join us - I know you all play."

"I don't!" I protest loudly, "I'm not playing football anymore! Rugby's way more fun!"

"Football has eleven players a side, girls rugby only has seven," my brother says, "The more people on the field, the more fun there is."

"No it isn't," I retort, happy to provoke the age-old football-rugby debate that had once rifted the family, "less players means more running and more scoring. And I get to tackle, and I get to play the ball however I want when you can only use your feet!"

"Settle down, Andy, Kathy," Dad intervenes before this becomes another fight of the week, I sat back and focus on finishing my breakfast, when the doorbell rings.

"Who is it?" I ask, as Dad stands to check. Mum, too hurries out of the kitchen, leaving my brother and I staring at each other again.

"I am not helping you, Andy," I pet his shoulders like Dad always does, and speak in an old man's tone, "Because you are helpless!"

My brother looks as if he's got a witty comeback, but the greetings coming from the threshold stop us both from speaking another word.

"Amy, what a surprise," Dad's voice booms into the kitchen. Andy and I freeze for a second, but before we could hear another word, we both stand up abruptly, bumping the chairs aside and push our way out to the hall. Our small race is set to a halt by the sight that neither of us, nor our parents, seem to comprehend: Mrs Portley stood at the door with her characteristic handbag, looking cheerful but extremely worn out. Her hat, however, is missing, and she is visibly tanned from the last time I saw her.

"M - Mrs Portley," I hear my brother say, "You're back!"

Well done, Andy, stating the obvious.

"Yes, we're back. We took a long travel around the world, a surprise one, I'd say." Mrs Portley smiles at us.

Mum and Dad turn to look at us, as if they are about to tell us off for running out on our own. Then, suddenly, Mum slaps her head and says, "What was I thinking, Amy, come in, come in. I'll set the kettle on and we can talk all we like - or would you like some breakfast with us?"

"No, no need for that," says Mrs Portley as she steps through the threshold, "We had food at the airport." Andy and I, suddenly remembering our grand escape from the kitchen, rush back to set the chairs right.

"Are you sure you're up for the talk, Amy," Dad asks concernedly as the adults entered the kitchen, "Sounds like you've had quite a trip, you must be tired."

"Indeed, indeed," Mrs Portley helps herself into a chair, "But don't worry, it was a short flight, and we'll get plenty of rest later."

Mum sets the saucers and begins her usual round of 'announcing the menu and taking the order', "I'm afraid we've only got Green and Jasmine, some cake from yesterday, some biscuits and no scones, would that be okay with that?"

"Oh I miss your jasmine tea, Mary, with your special sugar," Mrs Portley taps her finger on the table impatiently, "And biscuits would be great."

"Where did you go?" Andy asks when mum disappears behind the counter looking for tea.

"Everywhere, chap. We took a tour around the globe, and I'll start at the beginning… It was a very last minute decision..."

And on she talks. Again, I am bored by the conversation between that woman and my parents, but Andy seems to be captivated by it. So I have no choice but to listen to the Portley's trip through Europe, Africa, Australia, South and North America. I'm telling you, Mrs Portley has the power of turning the most exciting dragon slaying story into a boring social studies textbook.

"So we spent the next week in Montreal - they speak very odd French and English and it snowed the day we got there, but Tony and Chris both had a wonderful time at the Biodôm! The pubs, too, were amazing on Crescent Street, but of course, we didn't really go in because of the kids. Then there's the _Vieux-Port_ , that's the older, more cultural part of the city with interesting graffitis and buskers. And we took the flight this morning - or last night, depending on where you are, of course - back to Manchester."

"Sounds like an awesome trip," Dad says. We have all finished our breakfast and tea now, with Mrs Portley on her fifth cup, "And you must be tired -"

"No matter, no matter," Mrs Portley waves a hand, "We're all excited to be back in town to share our story. I bet Tony and Chris will tell you loads of fascinating stories later, but they're asleep now, so I decided to say 'hi' to our friends and neighbours."

"Can we go for a picnic?" Andy asks so suddenly that I wouldn't have believed he had just spoken. His face turns to an embarrassing shade of pink, so he tries again, "I mean, after everyone wakes up - It's really nice out there!"

"A picnic?" Mrs Portley smiles through Mum and Dad's reprimanding glares, "I'm sorry, dear, but not today. We've got loads of unpacking to do, I'm sure you understand. We'll go to the lake some other day, and that's a promise. Now, Oscar, Mary, if you'll excuse me, I'll need to check on my boys..."

Mum, Dad, Andy and I all stand up and see her off at the door. Finally coming back after more meaningless chinwag, the house returns to its normal calmness.

"Well, that was nice of her to come and say 'hi'," Mum says as she takes our bowls to the sink, "But I wonder..." she trails off as she turns her back on me. I quickly gather all the teacups and send them to the sink, too, and Mum asks, "Well, Qian'er, would you be up for a family football game before lunch?"

"No," I state my preference firmly and tersely.

* * *

Notes:

(1): Ge - a short form of 'brother' in Chinese.

(2): Qian'er - Kathy's nickname in Chinese. Even though Katherine is her legal name, only her dad calls her Kathy in her family because he's the only one who can't pronounce her Chinese nickname. 

(3): Tofu Nao - A northern Chinese dish that is often served for breakfast, and is made from topping runny/soft Tofu with sauce. 

* * *

**A/N:**

 **Well I did promise to try and work on other stories, so here we are. Tbh it took me a long time to think of an appropriate start for any of my planned stories, and to say I'm relieved to finally get this out here is an understatement. I hope those of you who enjoyed BFNM will find this an enjoyable start. A reminder, we are back to Rowling's world, and this is May, 1998.**

 **For some of you, the language of this chapter (and many others) may sound forced and the geographical, cultural and historical information of the UK may not be accurate. That is because I am an English-learner-in-Canada attempting to write in British. I'll try to check my places, event references, details, and slang/dialects but I don't think I'll be flawless anytime soon. So please, if you like where this story is going and want to help me with my writing, PM me and I'll let you beta for every new chapter as long as you're up for it!**

 **I'll never say no to more reviews xD**

 **0902FRIENDs**


	2. 2 Delayed Departure

2\. Delayed Departure

"Our Hat of Honour goes to our youngest player," I feel my face burn with excitement as the girls all beam at me. Murk, the coach, smiles down proudly, and continues, "not only for scoring a total of five tries as the Winger, but also for finally making a full tackle."

Feeling overrated, I smile shyly at team huddle. In fact, I've got no idea how I made that tackle. All I know is in that final game, we were playing overtime, and only got two points ahead. The other team's Scrum Half broke away from our defence line and sprinted to my side of the field to get away from the rest of my team. I was on my own, but my speed allowed me to catch up to her, only she was so much bigger than me that in an act of desperation, I threw myself at her. I reckon she must have tripped over my hand, because she would have kept running even with me clinging onto her jersey. And fortunately, when she tripped, the ball slipped, so I kicked it out of bounds, thus ending the game and winning us the 3rd place trophy Bowl.

"I think she just tripped, that's all," I realise I am still blushing, and try to explain what had been going on half an hour ago.

"That was a proper full tackle," Clara, our second prop, assures me firmly, "I saw it from the sideline. You jumped at her like a bullet, grabbed her jersey, and pulled her legs as you continued to push. You did a textbook tackle, Kathy, and performed half of that in the air!"

She looks at me as if she's just found a treasure. In fact, many of the girls, including the somewhat intimidating captain, look like I've unleashed another talent. But I know, deep down, that I can only sprint. In fact, I've never made a full tackle since I joined the U14 First team: the other girls are all bigger, stronger, and more experienced than me, and my school team never properly taught me how to tackle.

"Don't discredit yourself on this one," Lily, our hook, claps a hand on my shoulder. We are now walking back to the tent to pack up, "You've worked hard every day for the last four weeks!"

I nod, and shove the strange feeling aside. Despite what everyone says, I keep thinking that there is some higher power helping me in the games. But what can I say when everyone tells me otherwise?

"Ready to go?"

I look up from my unzipped sports bag, the still-open mouth guard case in my hands. Mum and Andy came down to pick me up.

"Where's Dad?" I ask. This morning, all four of us drove down to see (or play, in my case) the final tournament, and it is unlike Dad to not greet me after any game.

"He got called away," my brother shrugs, "Something to do with a client..."

"Attempted suicide," Mum informs us plainly, "Honestly, I still don't understand why your Dad insist on taking psychiatric cases while starting a new research topic."

"Won't cases be necessary for researches?" I ask, snapping my mouth guard case shut and chucking my cleats into the bag roughly, "And aren't you taking, like, twenty clients, while still taking care of the three of us?"

My brother looks bored by our conversation. He always does, when the rest of us talk about this sort of stuff. He seems to be more interested in math and cooking, his interests seem like a strange combination for me.

"Our research is about preventing PTSD, not treating clinically diagnosed cases," Mum explains, and I keep shoving everything I can grab into the bag, "And I have only five active cases, the rest are follow-ups."

"I see," I say, finally zipping my bag closed and swinging it onto my back, "So Dad's overworking and you are avoiding new cases, right?"

I know I'm being hard on Mum, but that is exactly what I feel, and I conceal the sharpness in my voice rather successfully. So I decide I'm not being rude.

"Yes and no," Mum answers, showing no sign of being offended, "I've cleared my schedule for the research - they'll soon refer people to me and I'm opening up spaces. Dad wants to help the department until the last minute. He'll delegate when it comes to it."

We've reached the car as Mum talked. Andy is already in the car, avoiding as much of the conversation as possible. I climb into the back seat and set my bag in between us, and ask, "Won't it be next week, though? I've got one more game this summer and we're leaving the day after."

"Exactly my point," Mum starts the car, and the journey home is filled with silence.

Both Andy and I are starving by the time we get home. I find my own hunger understandable: I had just survived a day on nothing but energy bars, biscuits, and fruits, while playing three full games as the blitzer and another half as the Hook. Mind you, we play seven minute halves, but our tournaments never last more than two days and the games are fast paced, which means it can be more physically demanding than the boys' games. My brother, however, did nothing but cheering me up at the sideline, and I am sure he had time to eat Mum's sandwich for lunch. It's hard to understand why he is starving before five o'clock, but Mum says he's entering a phase, so I refrain from teasing him about it.

I claim Mum and Dad's bathroom before Andy could protest, dump my sport bag, towel and clean clothes onto the toilet bowl, and lock the door. Outside, Andy demanded to swap rooms half-heartedly, only to be called to help with dinner by Mum. I can almost see him making a face from the other side of the door, and slipping away pretending to be the world's best stalker.

Stripping down my jersey and shorts, I examine myself carefully. It is surprising how few bruises I got from three and a half games: last year, I'd had more by playing only two games. But then, I know some of them don't really show until the next day or so, so I gently probed my limbs, trying to find potential purple spots in the next few days, recounting the day as I feel them.

There is one cleat mark on the outside of my left thigh, I must have gotten it when I tried - and failed - to rock over Lily, subsequently falling onto someone's foot. Going up a few inches, just above my hips, there is a scrape, or abrasion as Mum calls it, from being tackled by some Indian girl and sent flying for a few feet. The bruise on my left hand is most certainly the result from tripping the other team's player _after_ I'd scored my second try. That girl had been fast, even faster than me, but I was just outside the Five-Metre line when I broke free, and still don't understand why she would chase me knowing full well she couldn't have stopped me, or even force me to the corner. Both of my knees are scraped and painful, but they look fine for now. I'm sure they'll bruise up tomorrow - being tackled repeatedly to the ground does this to your knees. What it also does, is leaving odd marks on odd places of your body. Today, for example, I have a blue spot as big as my thumbnail on my right cheek, and I've got no idea how I got that.

Then I realise something else. I've got no mark from my very last tackle.

I should have, though. From my own memory, I tripped the other girl with my left arm, and she landed on both of them. Yet my arms are fine. They aren't even sore! Even if what Clara told me was true, she would have kicked my legs before falling down, except there are no mysterious spots or pain coming from my lower limbs, either. Was it only luck, then?

The smell of sizzling onion seep through the door. I breath in the aroma slowly and deeply, take off my underwear, and turn on the tap.

* * *

Dad doesn't come back till we all finish dinner. Mum, always having the foresight, saved him some soup and steak, and he is now wolfing down his plate. Andy has gone up to his room doing God-knows-what, and I am helping Mum with the dishes because he helped with dinner earlier.

"What happened to that poor client of yours?" I ask, picking up the cutleries from the dinner table.

"He's not mine," Dad explains in between his bites, "He's a new incoming, and they called me for the assessment."

A second question urges itself to the tip of my tongue, but I resist it. Mum and Dad never talks about the specifics of their clients in front of us, although I suspect they share their cases when they are alone.

"You've been gone for a bit long for one assessment," Mum speaks loudly from the sink. I carefully walk over and place the forks and knives in it.

"And I dealt with some paperwork about the transfers," Dad also raises his voice for Mum to hear, "You know, for the trip and the research."

I hear Mum chortle "That's my lad" before turning to collect the unfinished dishes. Daring to glance at her for a moment before I leave, I see her smiling pleasantly down at the cup she's washing. At the table, Dad has already finished his dinner.

"Blimey, Dad," I spot his empty plate, "You eat faster than a hurricane!"

Dad sits up, pats his belly, and smiles teasingly, "That's because Mum's a good c-"

He doesn't get to finish his sentence, for the doorbell rings. The sound of running water stops as Mum turns off the tap.

"Are we expecting any visitors I'm not aware of?" Dad asks pleasantly.

I shake my head. The Portleys come for tea every Thursday after dinner, but today is Saturday, and for people to knock at dinner time, there must be something important, or even urgent.

"You two stay in here, I'll get the door," Dad orders. His tone is still pleasant, but there is definitely concern in his voice. Water starts running again at the sink, and I resume to chuck the leftover salad to the bin.

"Good evening, Mr Walters," I hear an old yet capable female voice, "I am Professor Minerva McGonagall, and this is Mr Justin Finch-Fletchley. We are here to talk to your family about your daughter, Eegz-ah-oh-ki-an Walters."

I snort quietly into the leftover beans. For almost a decade, no one, not a single person beside Andy, Mum, or Mum's friends and relatives, has managed to pronounce my name clearly and properly. Well, I guess it's not your fault if you feel helpless seeing the name 'Xiaoqian'. What I don't understand is why my mother specifically chose such a hard name to spell and to pronounce. Mum says the characters 晓 and 倩 mean 'early morning' and 'smiling pleasantly' respectively, but that doesn't explain why Andy was named Andi, the phonetic translation of his proper name.

"What have you got to talk about my daughter, Professor?" even from the kitchen, I can hear the distant politeness and fierce protectiveness of my Dad.

"You see, sir, we are from a school in Scotland," speaks a male voice. I imagine Dad staring down at the man with his plain, grey eyes, and wonder how the poor man must be struggling to keep his calm, thus I am more than surprised to hear him carry on with such composure, "A school for special talents."

I have just finished wrapping the beans and am in the process of picking up the bowl when I hear the last few words. The bowl slips through my fingers, giving a dull _thud_ as it hits the dinner table. I look up, Mum stares at me with her hands frozen in midair and the tap running. A frown starts to crease up on her face, and I know why.

"Our daughter is going to Newall Green and nowhere else," says Dad sharply. There was a scurry of movements and then silence. At last, the man speaks again.

"Please sir, hear us out," even I pick up the keenness and sincerity in his voice, so Dad can't have possibly missed it, "I swear we are no fraud, so would you please let us in."

Dad murmurs something with his voice lowered. I can only think he was threatening the visitors for when they enter the kitchen, neither look particularly lighthearted.

The woman enters first, and sits in the chair closest to the door. She is elegantly posed, indeed, but everything from her green tartan to her worn-out eyes tells me that the elegance is only the surface; and her name, Minerva, only summarises one part of her under that surface: this elderly woman is too complex for me to understand.

The man follows, and sits down beside her. Strangely, he looks much younger than he sounds, but much older than he should. His carefully combed brown hair is about a shade darker than Mum's black tea, and his eyes a shade lighter than Mum's green tea. He's average height, and lean, not older than nineteen from his built, yet his eyes seem to demonstrate maturity that spans way beyond his physical age. I can almost hear Mum whispering 'he's got stories' into my ear upon staring at those eyes, and I wonder what type of school this is.

Dad sits down at the head of the table, his expression unreadable. Mum disappears from the kitchen, and I know where she is heading. Unsurprisingly, a minute later, she enters again with an annoyed looking Andy, both of them frowning identically.

"What's going on?" Andy breaks the silence as he sits down, looking at Dad in the eyes, "Mum said it's something about Qian'er."

"It may sound hard to believe, Mr Walters," the woman, Professor McGonagall, answers briskly, "But we believe your sister has a special talent we are looking for, and we are offering her a place at my school, Hogwarts."

"But what special talent are you talking about?" I ask, despite Dad's disapproving glares. To our surprise, both visitors fall into silence. Then, after exchanging a look, the man, Mr Finch something, speaks.

"Miss Walters -" he begins, his tone soft, compassionate, and understanding.

"Kathy," I interrupt, "That's what other people call me."

"Kathy," he corrects himself, "I know how ridiculous this sounds, but the special talent you have," he pauses, as if pronouncing the next few words takes tremendous effort out of him, "is the ability to perform magic."

For a long, stretching moment, nobody speaks. The world beside me seems to fade into surreal whiteness, and all I can hear is the low buzz of the word 'magic' filling up my brain. I shake my head to clear it.

"But magic?" Mum speaks up, dragging me back to the reality with her unusually sharp voice, "Shouldn't it only exist in children's fantasy books?"

"It does exist in those books, Miss Walters," Mr Finch speaks again, sounding somewhat relaxed by our reception, "But it exist in the real world, too, hidden by the Statute of Secrecy. Only witches and wizards, and their immediate non-magical family members are allowed to know about our world."

Dad looks like he's torn between banishing the visitors from the house right this moment and hearing out their story. Professor McGonagall solves the problem by making the decision for him.

"Magic is real, and we can show you."

She takes out a stick - a wand, I wonder? If this is a fraud school, they are definitely going way too far for money. They are even going a bit far to ridicule, I think. So why are they here blubbering about something that shouldn't exist?

With a wave of her stick, a petite and delicate vase appears out of nowhere, and is floating in the air. It lands onto the table gently under her direction. Then, with a different wave, a bouquet of tulip appears inside the vase, surrounded by little golden flying particles - are they fairies?

Once again, the room is filled with awkward silence.

It is my brother who breaks it.

"Well, now I know how you can break into my _locked_ room, and jump on me without breaking my ribs!" He tells us grinningly.

"That's because I'm strong enough to do it," I say, slightly offended by my brother's tone, "I've got enough strength to shake off the lock, and enough control to land on you gently!"

"What about that tackle today?"

I open my mouth to retort, only to be stopped before I can make myself heard. Wouldn't that explain everything?

"Sometimes, accidental magic happen when a child loses control," Professor McGonagall drives us back to the topic, "And I'm sure you have experienced more unexplained incidents like these when you lose your temper?"

I would have, if I could lose my temper. But ever since I turn six and Mum and Dad sat me down and talked to me about control and using my words, I've never felt truly angry, or scared. Sure, there have been sad moments and bad days, but I've learned to express my need properly and not rely on unleashing emotions, and as a result, I don't feel compelled to show them to the extreme.

My blank face must have given me away, for the next second, Professor McGonagall raises her eyebrow, "Not even occasions like finding lost items out of desperation?"

I ponder for a moment, and shake my head again. The Professor and the man exchange a strange look.

"It's the other way around, I think," my brother whispers, earning everyone's attention. His face is turning pink with visible speed, and I know a confession's on its way when I see one, "I used to hide her things to tease her, but she never shows she's looking for them, and the things I hide always disappear from my room within a day. I always thought she knew it was me and where they were, so she took them back without letting me know to drive me nuts."

"What?" I feel stupid by my brother's revelation, "You used to steal my things? What did you take?"

"I think, Miss Walters," Professor McGonagall intercepts before another sibling's fight can begin, "That is the confirmation we are all looking for."

I sneak a look at Mum and Dad, who sit on opposite sides of the table. Mum is still too stunned to talk, and Dad looks like he's fighting some invisible forces for breaths.

"Very well, very well," he says finally, "Let's suppose what you are saying is true, what is the school about, then?"

"Hogwarts teaches us how to make proper use of our power," Mr Finch takes over, "For us who grew up among Muggles, it also helps us to control it in the early years."

"Muggles?"

"People without magical powers," Mr Finch says lightly, "You and I are born from Muggle parents, so we are Muggleborns. I have other friends who grew up among Muggles, too, and most of them are Muggleborns."

He pauses, letting out a smile at the mention of his friends. Except, for some reason, I feel sadness in his smile.

"And don't be ashamed to call yourself a witch," he continues, still smiling, "I know loads of witches who are nice and sweet. They've got everything you can find in good people, you know."

I don't, because I haven't met any other witches. But I hold my tongue, and wait for his next words. They never come.

"Is that it?" Dad asks now that neither visitors look like they need to speak, "You're not talking about the school, the fees, and other details?"

"There is no tuition, or any mandatory fees for Miss Walters," Professor McGonagall announces the news in such a manner that, for a moment, I think it as an extremely bad thing to happen, "Our government and school board have received a large amount of - donation - recently, and much of it is used to offer full scholarships to Muggleborn students and any student who needs financial support. Even your standard supplies are paid for by this scholarship, which means you as parents will only pay for any supplement materials, items of personal needs, and leisure consumptions."

"There will be an orientation session in London next Sunday, after which we will escort Kathy to get her supplies," Justin adds, "The Ministry of Magic - our government - and Hogwarts decide this is the best way to welcome new Muggleborn families into our society, and here's the detail."

He takes out his wand, waves it, and produces a funny piece of paper - I've never seen real parchment before, but I am certain I'm staring at a piece of it now. There is an address written neatly in navy ink, 12 Grimmauld Place, and the time of the event, 10am-5pm.

"But we're leaving for China at noon," I frown at the paper, "Can't we get my things sooner?"

"We'll arrange your transportation so that you will arrive at your destination no later than the expected time, but we cannot reschedule the orientation, or organising an alternative date," says Professor McGonagall, her voice suddenly sharp and distant, "We are experiencing major stuff reform, and the new teachers won't be able to provide their supply list until Friday -"

"And Sunday is the first day we can provide full security for the event," Mr Finch jumps in grimly, "I've got to inform you this, Mr and Mrs Walters, because you and your family will find out sooner or later," he draws a breath and looks directly into my Dad's eyes, "Our society has experienced much trouble in the past few years, and we are still in the process of recovering from it -" he raises his voice slightly to stop Mum and Dad from interrupting, "But rest assured that your daughter will be perfectly safe at Hogwarts."

"But didn't you say the orientation requires full security?"

"I did, and you do need help entering the world," all the signs of cheerfulness or relaxation are gone from Mr Finch's face, "But it's only one day, and we can keep all of you safe with a handful of Aurors - a branch of magical police forces. Professor McGonagall, the Headmistress herself, will ensure your daughter's safety at Hogwarts, after everything that happened this past year -"

His eyes darkens and he trails off. Mr Finch looks down before I can read more from his expression, so Professor McGonagall takes over.

"As Mr Finch-Fletchley says, I will personally ensure that your daughter is safe at Hogwarts, and finds herself belong to the school," her eyes become steely as she speaks the words, "And we will make personal defence a top priority, so that when it comes to buying supplies next summer, or even during Christmas, Miss Walters will be able to protect herself and her family."

"I know it sounds scary, I truly do," Mr Finch-Fletchley looks up again, his eyes soft and compassionate, though his voice is steady, "But our society needs new minds, especially now. And Kathy needs to learn how to control and use her power. So please, trust us, and let her be a part of this progressing society."

Mum shakes her head while Dad looks pensive. I think Mr Finch-Fletchley is speaking of the truth, but I am more curious of what the 'trouble' is and what had happened 'this past year'. Does the magical world get terrorist attacks like England does? But then, how do they know their 'trouble' is over?

"We'll take the week to think about it," Mum says with the finality I have only heard once, "And we'll give you the answer after the orientation."

The visitors stand up and turn around, Mum and Dad did the same, silently urging Andy and me to follow. Together, our family stand at the threshold to see them off, when Mr Finch-Fletchley reaches inside his travel jacket, and pulls out a card - made of paper. I look down to read the front side,

 **Justin Finch-Fletchley**

 **Temporary Auror, Auror Office, DMLE**

 **Part-Time Intern, Muggleborn Services, DNMA**

"Send me the details of your flights, and don't hesitate to contact me if you have more questions. Phone me, text me, email me, I check them all," he smiles again, making him look just as young as any teenager, "And call me Justin."

* * *

 **A/N: Oops, this chapter is much longer than I intended, but it feels right, so please bear with me. I'm not sure if I used too much rugby jargon so if you have trouble understanding, let me know, and I'll explain them. Also, I know there is some inaccurate/unspecific information in the chapter, but since I'm writing from the POV of an 11-year-old, I'd expect those generalisationg of concepts.**

 **If you'd like to help me making this story more British (or just better at the grammar/spelling level), please PM me and I'll let you be my Beta-reader.**

 **Reviews make me see the potential of this new perspective, so please, if you like the story so far, and want to keep reading, leave me a word or two! I may be updating fast now, but I'll need the reviews to keep me going soon, I'm sure.**

 **0902FRIENDs**


	3. 3 Entrance

3\. Entrance

The next week passes as slowly as a snail can walk. Training time is reduced to an hour every other day now that our final tournament is finished, which means more free time for me. But, after the initial ecstasy of finally being able to do whatever I like whenever I like, the usual boredom of summer starts to get to my nerves. After all, we don't get to go to the beach, or into the city, every day. So, after a whole day of reading in bed, I emailed Justin for the first time since we sent him our flight details, asking for more information about that world. I did it before dinner from Mum and Dad's computer, and he has replied by the time we cleaned everything up.

 _Kathy,_ he writes,

 _First of all, there is no need to worry. I am sure you'll enjoy yourself at Hogwarts, and find your own unique place in the magical society. Also, you are right. Magic is absolutely real for you, for me, for three thousand other witches and wizards, and for many other beings. The vase and the tulips are there to remind you of this fact, if you haven't already guessed._

 _You don't need to prepare for Sunday. I know you're taking all your luggages with you, and we will make special arrangements to keep them safe before your departure. Apart from your travel supplies, all you need is an open heart to have fun on Sunday. There will be eight families, each with a magical child around your age. Your brother won't be left out, either, as many other families have more than one non-magical child, too. As for security measures, your guides will be the ones to keep you safe. They are volunteers from Dumbledore's Army, and half of them are temporary Aurors like me. Your family will be introduced to a pair of guides, one Auror and one non-Auror, during the orientation, and they will help you out through your shopping trip._

 _We will have an introductory lecture of some sort, integrated with activities, for the morning. You'll be informed about the basics in magical lives and customs, including jargons, clothing, media, communication and transportation, magical careers, and the education system. We'll have lunch akin to a normal Hogwarts lunch, and then your guides will take you to Diagon Alley to shop for your school supplies. You'll be given out your official letter of acceptance and a list of required supplies. Everything listed on that letter will be paid for by your scholarship, and you'll only need to pay for anything else you want. There are a few books I think would interest you,_ Hogwarts, A History _being the most recommended of them._ A Guide to Elementary Practical Defence _would be a fun and useful supplement for your Defence Against Dark Arts class,_ Magical History in the Twentieth Century _is the continuation of your History textbook, written by a different historian,_ Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them _and_ An Illustrated Guide to European Magical Plants _are for plants and animal lovers, and finally,_ Quidditch Through Ages _is a simple yet comprehensive introduction to Quidditch, the wizarding sport._

 _I hope the information provided will be helpful to you, as I'm unlikely to guide you on your orientation day. I'll be there, but no one knows to which family I will be assigned, better not keep your hopes up._

 _That being said, you can always come to me should a problem occur. I am officially your Liaison Officer (LO), and I'm responsible for your and your family's transition and integration into the Magical society. It is my job to inform you and assure you, as well as to help and protect you. You can come to me for anything from buying robes to asking for Protected Persons Status for your entire family. I will either help you directly, or refer you to and work with appropriate departments to ensure your needs are met._

 _I hope this letter is of use to you and your family. Let me know if you have more questions._

 _Best wishes,_

 _Justin Finch-Fletchley,_

 _Temporary Auror and Part-Time Intern LO,_

 _DMLE and DNMA_

"Well, the chap knows what he's doing," says a voice behind me.

"Dad, you scared me!" I turn around, and don't hesitate to let him know about my displeasement.

He makes a face before putting up a serious expression.

"So you think you'll like their school better?" he asks. His tone is light, yet I know what he is really asking.

"You just admitted Justin is reliable!" I point out sharply, "And that female professor, do you think she's someone to mess us around? I do believe them, and I think it' better for me to go, even just to learn how to control my power. And even if Hogwarts isn't real, Newall Green can't reject me!"

"I'm doubting less now that I've seen the tulips, five days and they still haven't withered a bit," says Dad, showing no signs of relaxing, "But it's the troubles Mum and I are concerned about."

"What about them?"

"Well, I'm sure you've seen the young chap," Dad says, and I nod. I seem to know where this is going, "He's seen some life, and he's a survivor," and I nod again, "What if it isn't just him? What if everyone in their world is - and will be - like this, being forced to mature at such a young age?"

"You're overthinking it, Dad," I say, "For one, Justin said that the troubles are now over, and they are recovering from it. And, there are only three thousand magical folks in Britain, anything could count for trouble with such a small population! A disease, for example, or a massive shooting. And even if we need body guards, it sounds like they are sending capable people for us. Members of Dumbledore's Army, they must be the best!"

"You know what I'm talking about," Dad says, sounding grave.

"I do, Dad, but I think I've made my decision," I sign, "You and Mum always say that having some challenges in life is like adding catalysts of personal growth, and I think it's time for me to walk out of the bubble. It doesn't sound like my personal safety will be at stake, and I'll have the opportunities to see more - that's much better than watching the Telly telling us to donate for African children!"

"I suppose so," Dad says, the lines around his eyes loosening up, "It is, after all, your choice to make. But you'll need to promise one thing -"

I raise an eyebrow while preparing myself for the worst: the absolute restriction of my freedom.

"- You'll observe their world rationally before you attempt to help," says Dad, surprising me, "And you will write to us if things are too much for you to handle. You've got -"

"Two perfectly capable psychologists as parents, yeah, I know." I finish his sentence for him, resisting the urge to roll my eyes, "You've told us _that_ millions of times, Dad."

"Well, glad you remember," Dad raises a teasing eyebrow, before turning to leave, "You'll have twenty minutes replying his email."

* * *

Sunday morning couldn't come faster. But when it finally does, I find myself in a miserable state. I'd been having a few sniffles the day before, but because of the exhibition games, I wasn't able to take care of it during the day. Then there was the last minute packing chaos and an equally exhausting late evening train ride, and by the time we finally checked into the hotel room, I simply crashed into the bed and fell asleep. Now, eight hours later, I wake up with a pounding headache, a congested nose, and a scratchy throat. And that's not counting the soreness and bruises from the previous day's games.

"Ma, have we got any paracetamol?" I nudge the figure lying beside me and ask quietly, while trying not to breath on her or wake up Dad and Andy. Mum stirs instantly, reaching over to feel my forehead and cheeks. Her fingers aren't as cold as I expected, and I hear her breath in relief.

"No fever, Qian'er," she informs me, "I've got all the medicine locked at the bottom of Dad's suitcase. Can you manage till we arrive or should I buy some more from the pharmacy down the street?"

"Guess I could manage," I murmur after painstakingly clearing my throat, "If you and Dad and Andy can manage an ill and cranky me."

"You sound far too cheerful and energetic to be ill," Mum teases, turning over and reaching for her glasses on the nightstand, "Try and get some rest and I'll see what I can do."

It turns out that 'getting some rest' is so much easier said than done, despite how worn-out I feel. After several tries of getting into a comfortable position, I admit defeat and opt to simply close my eyes and listen to Mum's bustling. Our movements seem enough to wake Dad, as a minute later, the neighbouring bed squeaks, and another pair of footsteps joins Mum's in the bathroom. Murmured words come across the room, then the edge of my bed sinks. I open my eyes lazily, and see Dad watching me with his eyebrows slightly knitted together. His expression softens as he sees me awake.

"Mum's boiling some water for you," he tells me, "And would you be okay with breakfast sandwiches, or would you rather have soup?"

"Sandwiches would be fine, thank you," I say, "And I'm ill, not incapable, or dying."

Dad chuckles before rising on his feet again. I close my eyes again to ease the stinging pain from under my eyelids, and hear him getting changed, leaving the room, and closing the door gently.

Andy is awake by the time Dad comes back, by which time Mum has already shoved two glassfuls of warm water (cooled down by adding ice to boiling water) down my throat, and I feel marginally willing to embrace the day. The breakfast sandwich and hot chocolate, although creating more discomfort than I would have liked, provide me some physical strength for the morning. By nine thirty, all four of us are finally ready to walk to the given address with our luggages, me having the extra burden of a box of Kleenex and a load of Andy's quiet, discreet teasing.

Our destination is much closer and easier to find than anticipated. As a result, we arrived on the doorstep of 12 Grimmauld Place by a twenty to ten. Mum rings the doorbell, and we wait. A moment later, the narrow door opens, and Justin stands at the threshold, smiling at us.

"Hi Kathy, Andy," he greets, remembering my brother's name from my email, "Mr and Mrs Walters - please come in, but be careful not to touch anything or wake anything up."

"Wha -"

"Shhhhhhh. Let's talk in the kitchen."

Justin leads us down the hallway into the spacious kitchen. Looking more like a classroom full of cushioned armchairs and sofas than a kitchen, the room is much bigger and accommodating than one would estimate from the outside, and the only logical explanation would be the use of magic. Perhaps, there is some kind of spell that enlarges a room from the inside?

As if reading my thoughts, Justin speaks, "My friends and I have special permission to enlarge the kitchen for the purposes of today's orientation, they're coming down soon -"

The door opens, and a tall, red-haired young man halts to a stop. From the way he is breathing, he has probably run down five flights of stairs to get here.

"Ron Weasley, one of our guides today," says Justin, "Ron, this is Kathy and her family, Andy, Mr and Mrs Walters."

"Mary and Oscar," Dad holds out a hand, and the man shakes them, and nods at my brother. Then he looks at me, and, to my biggest embarrassment, I sneeze.

"Not feeling the best today, are you?" the tall man, Ron, asks, and I feel myself blush. From the corner of my eyes, I see my brother making faces behind Mum and Dad's backs.

"No matter, we've got things for you," the man continues, seemingly unfazed by our family drama, "Oi," he raises his voice, "Hermione! You've got potions and stuff in that beaded bag of yours?"

There are a scurry of footsteps from upstairs. I use the time when everyone is distracted to wave a threatening fist at my brother, but the effects are weakened by a girl's screaming in near-hysterics, "What's wrong? Is anyone hurt? I've got Pepper-Up and Dittany and Turnip and all the other basic healing potions as well as Muggle remedies - Oh Ron, please tell me no one's hurt! I refilled my stash just in case - Oh"

The voice comes to a stop, and a young lady with brown, bushy hair stands in the doorway, looking at us wide-eyed. "Sorry," she says dismissively.

"Relax, Hermione," says Ron lightly, accomplishing the impossible task of calming the girl down, "Young Kathy seems to have caught a cold, that's all."

"That can be easily fixed," says the girl, stepping in and slipping a small, beaded bag from her right wrist. The bag is barely bigger than her palm, yet when she opens it and reaches in, her entire left forearm is swallowed by the seemingly pitless bag.

"This is even bigger than I thought," she mutters to herself, while still trying to pry around in the bag, making her look strangely imbalanced, "I've got a potion that works instantly but I bet you don't want smoke coming out of your ears for the morning," I shake my head in horror, "Then I've got some Advil -"

She pulls out her arm, and rests a clearly labeled, travel-sized bottle inside my hand.

"You can keep it," she says sadly, closing her bag, "I've got more - I never dare to let them run out -"

Then she stops, realising what she has just said. Covering her mouth with her hand (the beaded bag is once again safely concealed by her wrist), she turns away and parts us on the words, "- get some water."

By the time Mum finishes fussing over me and we settle down in one of the elongated sofas, the other families have started to come in, and the introductions are pushed off till later for everyone's convenience. Mum and Dad sit together on one side of the sofa, while I curl up my legs on the other, resting my head on Mum's shoulder to conserve energy. Andy decides that he's comfortable enough lying on the carpet with three fluffy cushions. I look around, the other families are also extremely casual and relaxed. Parents are letting their kids loose, and chinwags start to break out around the room. For some reason, we all feel at home without anyone telling us to. It seems that trust can be gained unconditionally in this room, yet I've got no idea where that feeling comes from.

By ten o'clock, the kitchen is filled with people. Well, the armchairs and sofas are all filled, yet the room itself still looks spacious. The girl who gave us the pills - Hermione - sits in between the red-haired boy and another boy with black hair and glasses. On his knees, a girl with hair as red as Ron's is happily chattering away with a blonde girl, the latter seems to have the most unconventional dressing sense ever, and doesn't care about what people think of her either. I look around the room, there are 15 people around Justin's age in this room, all of whom seem to know each other well. They must be our guides, the selected volunteers of the mysterious Dumbledore's Army, I recall from Justin's email. Though to me, they are all a bit young to be soldiers, let alone the best few who can handle the security of an obviously important event.

"If everyone could just pay attention," Justin enters the room and closes the door behind him. He strides towards the front where a blackboard is fixed in mid-air, "I think it's about time we begin."

The low buzz of hushed conversations are now to a stop, and people - I sit up and give my brother room to squeeze in beside me - I am feeling a lot better now that I've taken some medicine. The day starts with introductions, yet I find myself forgetting people's names and occupations, as well as the meanings of the strange words Justin uses to introduce them. Dad, the smart and studious one, takes out a pen and a notebook and wrote things down - how I only wish to have Dad's wisdom!

Then the presentations begin. Justin and a short, tough-looking girl named Susan go over the words for us again, explains the currency system as well as their exchange rates to Pounds, the traditional dressing code for Wizarding Britain, and ends with what to and not to expect in a magical household and in Hogwarts. Their presentation, although a bit tiring due to its informative nature, is integrated with various activities so that by the end of it, even the youngest children in the room (who looks to be about 4 years old) knows its content by heart.

Two dark skinned youths, Lee and Angelina, take the podium to start a presentation on Media, Communication and Transportation. Justin have already told me about the Portkeys, by which we will travel to Beijing later tonight. But Lee and Angelina's presentation is so much more lively and engaging that it's almost a show. People are laughing at Lee's hilarious Good Press, Bad Press demonstration that they don't even realise the show's over. And the laughter only starts to die down when Hermione and an Asian girl named Cho stand up to take over.

"Thank you, everyone, for being such amazing audiences," Cho starts, "Hermione and I are here to give you the most important presentation of the day. For parents, that is."

My brother laughs along with two other teenage boys in the room, while everyone else is paying extra attention to the speaking girls.

"I will be giving you important information on magical careers, while Hermione will talk about Hogwarts and the current school system in wizarding Britain."

And so she goes on explaining the advantages and disadvantages on becoming Ministry officials, Ministry clerks, Law Enforcement Officers/Workers, athletes, businesspeople, media workers, professors, and special personels such as curse breakers, researchers, herbologists and magizoologists. Her speech is long and rather dull, yet the parents in the room are taking numerous notes, as if missing one bit of her information could result in their sons and daughters jobless in the future. Hermione's part is more entertaining, mainly because Ron and his friends are muttering witty yet good-natured comments at her speech from time to time, making the room snort in laughters. At least, from her friends sitting down on the sofa, I know that OWLs results are delivered by owls, and there ends the resemblance and connection of two terms. When the speech finally comes to an end, Keith, a boy with big, clear eyes raises his hand and asks, his face full of hopeful fantasy,

"Does it mean that we can say goodbye to math and science?"

Several people laugh, and the older kids - our guides - exchange a look that I don't recognise. Then, still at the podium, Hermione answers,

"I'm afraid not, Keith. The Ministry, the School Board, and the Headmistress have decided that all students should be well acquainted with the Muggle world by the time they graduate, and thus making Muggle Studies mandatory. However, just like the other classes, there are levels rather than years starting this coming September, and all of you will start with B1, which is Muggle Academics 1, and move up or down depending on how you handle the material. Any more questions?"

I raise my hand, and Hermione nods at me.

"I'm Kathy," I say, "Could you explain the level system in more details? I'm not sure I understand it and I'd like to know what you mean by 'moving up and down'."

"Sure," says Hermione pleasantly, yet the older kids all groaned, "We have designed the level system to cater various students' needs after last year," she pauses, and several faces turn blank, "You will enter Hogwarts with different level of abilities, and you will find some classes harder than the others. The point of this system is to help the students find where they are at their studies, and make sure that they have a solid foundation before going into the next level. For example, in your first year, some of you may be taking Charms-1, and some will find it too easy and move up to Charms-2. The same goes to all core classes and most electives. There are typically eight levels for each class, 1 to 7, plus a P which stands for Professional. Muggle Studies have a slightly different level system. Muggle Studies A means Comprehensive Studies. There are only three levels in MSA, and they are aimed for pureblood or halfblood students who know little about the Muggle world. MSB, the Academics, has seven levels and will prepare you for A-Levels when you graduate - all first year Muggbleborns are enrolled in this class because of their superior knowledge of the Muggle World. There are also two levels in MSC, the Transition Pathway, aimed for students with a good understanding of the Muggle world yet don't have the basics in Academics as you do. Therefore, it is possible to see first years and fifth years sitting in one classroom together. To move up or down a level, all you need is to talk to your mentor before the third week of September, and your Head of House will update your timetable if the change is approved."

"But how do we know who our mentors are?" asks Amelia, a girl with chestnut-coloured hair.

"They'll be sixth-year student volunteers," answers Hermione, "They'll find you during or after the Welcoming Feast, and you can rely on them for as long as they remain in school. They will be responsible, caring, and understanding, so you can go to them for anything. When you enter your third year, however, your Head of House will take over from your mentors."

Even though her answers don't quite clear everything up, there doesn't seem to be more questions, so Hermione returns to her seat, and Justin stands to give the last words of the day.

"We'll have lunch in a moment," he gestures at a table full of cold plates against the wall, "But I'll just take one more second and announce the guide arrangements so that you can get to know each other over lunch: Dean and Seamus, you're with the Sloans; Neville and Luna, the Yeats; Susan and Angelina, the Blaires; Ron and Hermione, the Murphy's; Harry and Ginny, the Walters'; Parvati and Padma, the Lornes; Ernie and Cho, the Scotts, and finally Lee and I will go with the Douglas'."

People are rising from their seats, stretching their legs and walking around. Andy drags me to the food table while Mum and Dad make their way to Ron and Hermione's friends, the black haired youth and the red haired girl. I frown at the food on the table as we approach it: sandwiches and salads dominate the selection of dishes, yet neither appear appetising for me today. Clearing my still sore throat again, I go and pour myself a glass of orange juice, hoping the sugar in it will be enough till dinner.

* * *

 **A/N: Not much to say today... Please review and let me know about how I'm doing!**

 **0902FRIENDs**


	4. 4 Strange Scenes and a Scare

4\. Support and A Scare

"Are you not going to eat anything?" a girl wearing purple rimmed glasses, a grassy green T-shirt and casual, to-the-knees jeans peaks her head over my shoulder, "I hear we'll be walking loads in the afternoon."

"Think I'll deal with that when the time comes," I rumble, but let out a friendly smile nonetheless, "Kathy Walters."

"Amelia Murphy," says the girl, returning the polite smile and nodding at a couple at the door, talking to Ron and Hermione, "These are my parents, and that," she turns and points at a teenage boy about 16 talking animatedly to another boy his age, both wore Pokémon branded shirts, "is my brother Curtis - he's a nutter most of the time."

"Brother tend to be like that," I laugh at her comment, "My parents are next to yours," I point, "talking to Harry and Ginny. Andy can't leave me alone for longer than a minute - here he comes!"

"Oi, Miss Walters!" My brother shouts from the other end of the table while pushing his way towards us, "Would you like some spaghetti because you seem too feeble to help yourself at the moment? "

I give Amelia a 'here we go' look and strides towards my brother.

"One, I am capable of seeing, and smelling food as I wish," I begin, totally aware of Amelia being the mildly interested audience of another of our shows, "Two, I am not incapable and would like to stay this way for a long time," I glance down at the floor and have a sudden inspiration, "and three, even if I require assistance in any means, you won't be the one providing it because you can't even back off without falling down!"

My judgement proves correct. While I was having a go at my brother, he was steadily backing off from me, pretending to be afraid. But I have my eyes and he doesn't, so by the time I finish my speech, he is half a step away from an armchair. I take one more step forward, my brother retreats, his knee buckles and he sinks into the armchair with a surprised yell, almost sending his plate flying aside. Fortunately, his plate is empty enough to have no food spilling out, and as he throws himself off-balanced into the chair, I hear Amelia giggle.

"You are awesome," she says, slightly bending over as she laughs more, "My brother's completely off the bonkers, though. You'll see."

And I do see. We leave the house half an hour later, and start walking to a place called Diagon Alley. It seems that our guides decide it will be better if they stick together, and thus combining themselves and the two families into a dozen-people group. We divide into three smaller sections conveniently: the guides at the front leading everyone, us kids in the middle bantering, and our parents after us talking about whatever adults talk about when they get together.

"There had been another whale stranding last week, and we suspect it's environment related," I catch the quietly spoken words of Mr Murphy, and turn my head to hear better, "Too bad those whales can't be heard because they don't have anyone speaking out for them!"

Mrs Murphy appears to be embarrassed by her husband's outburst, yet before she could drive the conversation sideways, I ask, "What's a whale stranding?"

"Well, it's a phenomenon where whales are found dead on the beach, sometimes alone sometimes with their whole tribe -" Mr Murphy goes on to a full explanation of the term, while adding extra information where he sees fit. I immediately regret my decision, yet still manage to pay polite attention to him. On my side, however, Curtis starts to make weird noises that sound like a mixture of howling, swallowing air, and being strangled. I try my best to keep my focus at Mr Murphy while Andy stares at him bemusedly, and Amelia looks torn between rolling her eyes in exasperation and laughing out loud.

"What on earth is your problem, Curtis?" asks Mrs Murphy when the noise starts to draw interested looks from my parents. Apparently, she is not afraid of cutting off her husband.

"Excuse me idiotic brotha," Amelia announces in a mock Northeast accent, jerking a thumb at Curtis while she speaks, "But Curtis is a whale wanting to be heard."

My brother howls into laughters, and I follow suit not a moment later. Amelia seems to have finally broken down her façade and joins us, while Mum and Dad chuckle at the 16-year-old's wit. Mr Murphy, too, laughs as he runs his hand through his son's hair.

"Nice one, chap!" he says, deliberately ignoring Mrs Murphy's pursed lips. Andy looks as if he's got his newest admirers.

Our guides stop, and we realise that we are in a deserted alleyway in the centre of London.

"What's going on?" asks Mrs Murphy, "Is something wrong? Are we in trouble -"

"Please calm down, Mrs Murphy," says Hermione in a sweet voice, "We're adding some extra protections, that's all."

She then turns to Ron and points her wand at the poor man. For a second, I swear she'll turn him into a bat or something, but the next thing I see keep my unasked question at my throat: Ron's hair starts to turn brown, and his facial hair suddenly become thick as a forest; his eyes, too, turn into a very dark shade of brown akin to black.

"That'll do, Hermione," says Harry softly, a strange shimmer of lights in his eyes, "Ginny can do yours."

Ginny takes out her wand, and a minute later, Hermione's hair become smooth and blonde, her eyes grow slightly more triangular and the colour fades until they become as grey as pebbles, then she takes out a pair of fake glasses and puts them on, letting out a long breath.

"You aren't impersonating Bellatrix anymore, and you look the opposite from her," says a very strange-looking Ron. Ginny frowns and the light in Harry's eyes wavers before becoming steady again.

"That's very helpful, Ron," says Hermione, half snappish, half relieved.

"Let's go," says Harry, gesturing all of us who's been gawking in the rudest way possible, "Just one more block."

"But aren't you two going to - you know - transform?" asks Curtis, successfully sounding like an old lady in the 1880's. Andy snorts again, and Amelia whispers "Told you" into my ears.

"Ginny's fine," says Harry somewhat grudgingly, "And I'll be invisible."

"You'll be -"

"Yes, invisible," says Harry, sounding both amused and nostalgic, "Watch."

He takes out a silver, fancy cloak from his inner pocket, and throws it onto himself. Mrs Murphy lets out a shriek as he disappears out of thin air.

"Er - where is your friend now -?" asks Mum, trying to sound less overwhelmed than she feels.

"Here," says a voice from where Harry has disappeared. A second later, his body reappears and he's holding his cloak on his arm.

"It'll be too strange doing it here," he explains, "but once we're in the magical side of things - it's for the best. I'll be able to provide extra protection being invisible, especially from the mob."

He doesn't seem keen to elaborate more, so off we go again.

Ron, Hermione and Ginny lead us into a small door between a bookshop and a record store. Harry, too, after putting on his cloak and being let in by Ginny. Just when Amelia and I are ready to step in, Mum stops us.

"Is this safe?" she asks, "It looks like it's broken down."

"It's perfectly fine, Mrs Walters," Hermione pokes her head out of the room, "It's a pub in disguise - you just need to step in."

So we follow, the adults after the kids again. When all eight of us manage to squeeze through the ancient door, Ron and Ginny are already making their way towards the back while Hermione is waving at the barmaid, who's striding towards her as fast as she can through the crowd.

"Good to see you, Hannah," says Hermione, trying to join her friends while avoiding as much as anyone else, "We're here for Ginny's school things, if you under -"

"Afternoon, Dora," says the blonde girl cheerfully, "Good to see so many people out celebrating, eh?"

"I hope they aren't giving you much trouble," says Hermione, "You know, being drunk and all -"

"Three months and I'm getting used of this new mood," smiles Hannah, "It's much improvement from all the fights before, you know."

"I do," says Hermione, somewhat sadly, "But I've got to go now -"

"Well, in that case, I'll save a room for your lot," says Hannah, stopping her attempts to approach Hermione, "7pm, the whole lot of you, and everyone else who's up for it."

"Thanks Hannah," says Hermione before beckoning at us, "We've got to go through the back."

It seems impossible to make it through the whole pub, but we make it out at last. Mr Murphy wrinkles his nose at his suit, which now smells like mold, but Amelia decides she has other priorities than clothing.

"Dora?" she asks, clearly not understanding what just happened, "Aren't you -"

She is cut off by my tugging on her t-shirt and Ron, Ginny, and surprisingly Mum's shushing. Blushing slightly, she closes her mouth shut.

"It's an alias," whispers Ginny urgently, "Ron goes by Connor for the rest of the day. Remember it."

Before we have time to ask more questions, Hermione takes out her wand, and taps a brick above the clearly abandoned garbage bins. A disconcerting, grumbling noise follows, and the bricks in front of us start rearranging themselves, revealing an alleyway that looks rather battered. Ron and Hermione steps ahead, and Ginny turns to face us.

"Welcome to Diagon Alley," she says apologetically, "I'm afraid it's not at its best at the moment, but it's getting back onto its feet. You'll have a perfectly safe and pleasant afternoon as long as you stay close with us."

Amelia drags me through the threshold, and we now stand at the entrance of the road, speculating the stores on both sides. We start walking again when the rest of our families join us in the Alley, and the bricks turn back into a wall with bins at its feet.

The first store we walk past has no one but the female owner and a person in wheelchair in it, and, by the looks of it, the owner has been letting her frustration out at the handicapped person. Then follow a number of different thrift stores and, strangely, home restoration equipment stores and renovation services. There is also what looks like an NGO office, the Diggory Fund, and a queue of people wait outside its door. Some of the stores on our sides are also empty, looking as if their owners have fled in the middle of an ambush and never came back.

"Poor Florence," I hear Harry somewhere around us, "Lost both of his feet after Merlin knows what..."

"At least he's got Fiona," says Ginny softly, though when she looks at us, she looks rather unease.

When we arrive at the first road on the left and Curtis tries to make a show by marching in with Andy, all three visible guides reach out their arms to stop him and steer him back onto the main street. Curtis, clearly shaken by such a volatile reaction, mutters something disgraceful under his breath, only to be threatened by Ron's "We'll hex you till you can't move next time you try that".

"Knockturn Alley is not a safe place for many people," Ginny explains to Amelia and me as Ron continues to lecture the boys, "Not even many wizards… Not even Harry, Ron and Hermione."

Again, the somewhat strange remark is followed by no further explanation, and I know better than to ask.

"First stop, Gringotts," announces Ron grumpily, obviously still holding a grudge at the boys, "The Goblins only take cash for the exchange, and 20 Galleons should be sufficient for today."

"He means a hundred pounds," explains Hermione helpfully, "You might want to exchange more if you want extra books to read - I spent about 20 Galleons on leisure reading alone the first time I was here."

"Well, double it if you're a bookworm, then," Ron leads our group into the door, revealing a graceful, marble-laid hall with numerous tables on both sides. Half of the tables are filled by small, ugly creatures, their wrinkly faces showing no signs of friendliness. They must be Goblins, then, as Justin has mentioned earlier.

"Dora and Connor can wait with you here," says Ginny, digging through her pockets and handing two envelopes to Amelia and me, "These are your letters of acceptance and supply lists - I'll take your parents to the exchange table."

Dad and Mrs Murphy hurry off with Ginny while Mum and Mr Murphy insist to stay with us. I tear open my letter, and read it through.

 _ **Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry**_

 _ **Headmistress: Minerva McGonagall**_

 _Dear Miss Walter,_

 _We are pleased to inform you that you have a place at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment._

 _Terms begin on 1 September. We await your confirmation of attendance by no later than August 14th._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _Minerva McGonagall_

 _Headmistress_

Pulling out the other piece of 'paper', I find the list of supplies, and start reading.

 ** _First-year students will require:_**

 _Uniform_ _  
Three Sets of Plain Work Robes (Black)  
One Plain Pointed Hat (Black) for day wear  
One Pair of Protective Gloves (dragon hide or similar)  
One Winter Cloak (Black, silver fastenings)  
Please note that all student's clothes should carry name-tags at all times.  
_ _Books  
_ The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 1 _by Miranda Goshawk  
_ A History of Magic _by Bathilda Bagshot  
_ Magical Theory _by Adalbert Waffling  
_ A Beginner's Guide to Transfiguration _by Emeric Switch  
_ One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi _by Phyllida Spore  
_ Magical Drafts and Potions _by Arsenius Jigger  
_ Elementary Defensive Magic and Its Application _by Godric Atwood_

 _A choice of:_

Sixth-Form Skill Set for Math and Sciences _by British Education Council_

Everyday Practices for Math and Sciences (Year 1-3) _by British Education Council_

Muggle Everyday Life Explained _by Charity Burbage_

 _Other Equipment_ _  
1 Wand  
1 Cauldron (pewter, standard size 2)  
1 set of glass or crystal phials  
1 telescope  
1 set of brass scales_

 _Students may also bring an Owl, a Cat, a Toad, or other harmless animals as a pet.  
PARENTS ARE REMINDED THAT FIRST YEARS ARE NOT ALLOWED THEIR OWN BROOMSTICKS._

I can't help but notice that "Sixth-Form Skill Set for Math and Sciences" is bolded, and circled, as if a reminder that I'm the newcomer, the outsider. Though, as I see today, seven more families are with me, so I shrug it off.

"Don't worry, you'll both fit in perfectly," Hermione smiles down at Amelia and me, "Just be yourselves and you'll find your own group of friends."

"Even if it takes you a troll to do so," Ron mutters under his breath, not even trying to keep his voice down. I hear a quiet snort that must be Harry's, and Hermione turns slightly pink.

"Ron," she hisses, "Would you please stop intimidating the new first-years?"

"It's a fair bit of warning," protests Ron. Somehow, his affronted look and Hermione's raised eyebrows are able to make me laugh and forget about the past minute.

"What's so funny?" Ron turns to me and asks in a silly sort of tone, only to be poked - from the sounds of it - by the invisible Harry. Amelia follows me into the giggles.

"Your parents are back," points Ron, trying to overlook his own embarrassment.

"What's so funny?" Dad asks me.

"R - Conner," I say, and Dad doesn't ask anymore questions.

"I've got my supply list," I tell him, "There're loads of stuff - We haven't got anymore suitcases."

"That'll be our first stop," announces Ron, "Sandner's Sustainable Suitcases, almost just next door."

Then our shopping trip begins. Amelia and I each choose a standard suitcase for school. According to Mr Sandner, there are several charms applied on the suitcases, making them more endurable and relatively easier to maneuver. Though, when I take the load myself, it doesn't feel any lighter than the suitcases we have back home.

"Wait till it's full," Ron tells us helpfully.

We sort out our uniforms at Madam Malkin's, and then get a full set of potions supplies each under Hermione's professional instructions. Just as we make our way to the bookshop, Curtis' attention is caught by a flashy, flamboyant store with exaggerating advertisement. It takes me a few seconds to make out the outlines of "Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes" at the top of the entrance, though Amelia immediately recognises the style.

"It looks like a joke shop," she tells me, "And a brilliant one!"

"It is," says Ginny sadly, "It's a family business, Ron and I help our brother George to run it these days. We manage."

I want to think that Ginny means they manage the business with just the three of them, which can be challenging. After all, this shop looks like the most popular, and most frequented store in the entire Alley. But I can't shake off the feeling that Ginny's talking about another, and a much darker sort of managing.

"We'll spend the rest of the afternoon here," Ron speaks in a subdued tone, "But for now we need to get to Flourish and Blotts, then there's Ollivanders just next door. We can grab a bite while doubling over, too."

Somehow, I don't like the way Ron says 'doubling over'. I haven't really known my guides for more than a few hours, and I now think they are all secret agents working seamlessly to keep us out of something. Though, from the genuine way they interact with us, I doubt they even know they aren't being as informative on certain topics.

The Flourish and Blotts is no less busier than the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes, yet it lacks the boisterous bustling that livens up the joke shop. In fact, if not for the burn marks on the floor and some of the shelves, I would say that this is my ideal bookshop. It's quiet, orderly, and has an earnest, academic atmosphere. People are talking in hushed whispers, yet I find them hardly disturbing - there's magic in the shop, too.

It turns out that the first year textbooks, along with standard quills, parchments, and bottles of ink, are already packed for each of us, and we only need to pick them up at the counter. Then, I delve into the shelves to find the books Justin had recommended for me. Amelia, on the other hand, is fascinated with all the pretty quills and parchment displayed by the shop.

"I wouldn't trust this book if I were you," Hermione pokes her head between the shelves as I read the Introductions for Magical History in the Twentieth Century, "It might be more accurate early in the century, but it's rubbish for the later years."

"Justin told me it's a fair continuation of a History of Magic," I say, feeling a bit defensive.

"Oh it's a fair book," says Hermione briskly, "And it's mostly accurate up until the 1970's. Though the book's published just a few years ago, and anything from 1981 on is complete and utter rubbish."

"That means I'll have to search through the papers and radio scripts if I want to know what happened three years ago?"

"Tell you what," says Hermione hesitantly, her cheeks are again turning pink, "I'm trying to write something for these past few years, along with Ginny and the boys. The boys aren't as eager to help, and I'll need a test reader after I finish each chapter. Would you be up for the job?"

"I - Er -" I stutter, too flattered and bewildered by the sudden offer, "Blimey - I guess I could try. But what do you -"

"Brilliant," Hermione breaths out in relief, efficiently cutting off my question, "I'll be at Hogwarts and I'll hand you the chapters once Ginny and I are finished, you can write down your feedback on the parchments - please keep them a secret, and take this."

She hurries away again. I read the note she just chucked in my hands, it is another booklist.

We indeed spend the most on supplementary and leisure reading. Mum and Dad agree to buy me most books from Justin's and Hermione's lists, much to Ron's dismay and Ginny's amusement. I anticipate my suitcase to be unbearably heavy and that Dad and Andy are going to carry it together, yet it doesn't feel much heavier than when we first bought it. I am able to carry it without much difficulty.

"Told you to wait," Ron's voice rings at the right moment again, "It's designed so that a first year is able to put it onto the train shelves with minimum help."

I nod and move away from the entrance so that I'm not blocking the traffic. Then Ron sniggers for what seems no reason at all. I must have scowled at him, for he apologises, "Sorry, that witch's hat reminded me of someone."

Amelia and her family are out by the time I take another dose of the Advil. From the way Amelia describes things on our brief journey to the next shop, I figure that she won't run out of quills nor parchments - use-wise or collection-wise - for our time at Hogwarts.

When we arrive at the Ollivanders, however, Hermione suggests we split up. According to her, wand choosing is as intricate as a magical ceremony, and too many people may interfere the outcome. She and Ron are going to grab everyone a cold drink while Ginny (and invisible Harry, I suspect) helps Amelia and me in the shop, and it takes the three of them five minutes to convince my parents that we will be well taken care of. When there are only us three girls left, Ginny pushes open the door, and hold it open for us to enter.

"Miss Weasley, it's a pleasure to meet you again," a grey, emaciated man emerges from the back of the shop, his white hair looks unkempt and his layers of wrinkles tell me that he is probably as old as his shop, "You wouldn't be here for a new wand, I presume?"

"No, sir," Ginny says politely, "I've got two first years who will be requesting your service today."

"Very well, very well, let's see." he says, though he might as well be speaking to himself for a second later, the man disappears again into the piles of boxes that line the shop. A tape measure jumps out of nowhere and starts making its way around my body, I take a step back before understanding what it is doing. On my side, Amelia merely looks surprised, yet her tape looks like it wants to strangle her to death.

"I remember every single wand I sell, Miss Walters and Miss Murphy," he appears out of nowhere again, "Like Miss Weasley's. Yew, precisely ten inches, contains a unicorn hair, and fairly resilient. It's never failed you, I hope?"

"No, never," Ginny smiles uneasily, "Then I wouldn't be here."

Mr Ollivander looks Ginny into the eyes intently. It is a long, curious look, and I am just starting to wonder how Ginny can hold still under such an intimidating stare when he nods, "Tell Mr Potter that I'm the most grateful for his help, all of it. He's done great things, great things, indeed."

I am about to ask if the said 'Mr Potter' is Harry's dad when Mr Ollivander thrusts a long open box under my nose, "Try this. Maple, nine and ¾ inches, phoenix feather, hard and durable."

I stare down at the stick - wand - in the box, feeling utterly stupid.

"A wave is enough," says Ginny.

I pick it up, feeling stupid with everyone watching as if I am a zoo monkey trying first time to reach a hanged banana. But before I can raise it enough to give it a good wave, it is snatched from me by a muttering, dissatisfied Ollivander.

"No, definitely no," he says, turning around and selecting another box from the pile on the table - a pile he'd just selected for us, "Try this, beech, eleven and a half inches, unicorn hair, whippy and flexible."

Again, the wand is taken away before I can do anything with it. Same goes for the next two tries.

"No matter," Mr Ollivander gives me a strange smile as I start to feel embarrassed, "Rarely do I get perfect matches on the first try, Miss Walters. Remember, the wand chooses the wizard, even though most people think it's the other way around."

Then he takes out another wand, "Pear, 10 and ¾ inches, unicorn hair, rigid yet plastic."

I resist the urge to point out the paradox in the statement, and pick up the wand. I let out a low hiss as a warm current of energy surges into my fingertips and spreads quickly over my body. It is a strange yet comfortable feeling, as if the current has filled my body completely. Multi-coloured sparkles, looking like a mini-firework display, shoot out of the tip of the wand. I turn to look at Ginny to see her smiling sweetly at me. I smile, too.

"This is it, Mrs Walters, this is it!" exclaims Mr Ollivander.

It takes Amelia a few more tries to get her wand: dogwood, dragon heartstring, eleven and a half inches, durable. Ginny thanks Mr Ollivander for us, and we head to the café next door, where Mum waits for me with a glass of pumpkin juice in her hands. We spend the next half an hour talking about things in the Muggle world - Ginny insist that we tell them all about Muggle sports because Harry and Ron know next to nothing about them, and Hermione doesn't care about sports. That inflicts another football-rugby debate, and I lose unceremoniously against what feels like everyone else.

However, the heated yet good-natured mood doesn't last. When we finish our drinks and start making our way to the Wheezes, Ron and Hermione suddenly look more anxious than I remember all day. I look around and see nothing suspicious, yet the frown on Ron's face grows deeper as we walk. Ginny, too, seems to be showing signs of nerves, yet she manages to keep herself relatively separate from her friends, while looking at ease.

A flash of red light. I jump back instinctively, only to have myself thrown onto an invisible wall. Loud, sharp noises that sounds much like an ambulance's siren fills the Alley. I steady myself to see people running around, screaming with fright, trying to get inside of the shops. In a split second, Diagon Alley turns into a panicked mess from its previously orderly state. While Mum and Dad hold Andy and me back, Amelia tries to run with the mob, so does her Mum, only to be held back by the invisible wall - it's separating the eight of us from the rest of the people, and Ginny, standing among us, has her wand out.

"Try to calm down," she answers as I meet her eyes, "There was a situation and the boys and Hermione has it under control now. You're perfectly safe within my Shield."

I take a deep breath and try to calm myself. It is, from what I remember, the first time I've ever experienced a full-fledge fight-or-flight reaction. It takes about a minute for the twisting feeling in my chest to subdue, and my heart rate slows down afterwards, followed by my breathing, and finally, when I feel that the muscles in my arms and legs are relaxed, I am surprised to find myself shaking slightly. I look around, Ron and Hermione each had a binded man at their wandpoints, and Harry's still nowhere to be seen. Though I suspect he is with Ron, and he's moving towards Hermione with his hostage while muttering something under his breath. I watch as Ron talks to Hermione, supposedly with Harry at their sides. They don't seem to agree with something at first for Hermione frowns and Ron looks hesitant, but after about a minute, both of them nod, and Ron bind two hostages together as Hermione walks around, waving her wand in a powerful yet calm manner. The noise finally comes to a stop when Ron disappears with the hostages, and Hermione walks back to us. I wait for her to tell us what was happening, yet she goes straight for Ginny, and I can only catch a brief moment of their whispered conversation.

"Greyback?" Asks Ginny.

"And Scabior," says Hermione with wrinkled nose, "Idiots… Polyjuice… Cells."

"What about -" Ginny thumbs at us.

"Harry figures… But… victim," says Hermione, "I'll take care of it, as for... Up to you."

The two girls exchange another look, and Hermione walks away again. The crowd is now coming out of the shops and resuming their shopping trips, only many of them are talking about the event. I have a faint suspicion that rumours are already running wild even just five minutes after the red flash was seen. I watch until Hermione reaches a man who seems to have fainted when the whole thing happened, and Ginny starts demanding my attention.

"Two criminals wanted to make trouble, Ron and Harry are taking them to the Ministry now," she explains simply, "Hermione's taking care of the victim and I'm escorting all of you to the Wheezes - it's the safest place for you right now."

She waits until every single one of us give some form of affirmative answer to continue, "I'll have to cancel the Shield for us to move freely, but I don't want anymore trouble. That means," she adds sternly towards the boys, "No running off on your own, and no trying to push each other onto other lanes or alleys."

The boys look dejected. But the incident must have shaken them up as well, for both acquiesce. The trip to the Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes is the dullest of the day, but the shop itself cheers us up considerably.

* * *

 **A/N: Again, this chapter becomes longer than I'd like, but I think it's the only way to make it work. I want to credit my host sister with the "whales wanting to be heard" joke - she did it once at the dinner table and I love it! The next chapter will be primarily Kathy's trip to China - I'm so pumped to write about her journey and adventures there! It'll be both fun and informative xD.**

 **0902FRIENDs**


	5. 5 Beijing, 1998

5\. Beijing, 1998

 _ **Warning: Heavy drinking scene &**_ _**strong language ahead.**_

Our first three days of the holiday turns out to be a completely waste of time: out of the four of us, only Mum successfully avoids 'adjusting' to Beijing: Andy and Dad took their time getting used to the food (and whatever was in it), and my cold was pushed to the verge of becoming bronchitis by the worrisome air merely hours after we arrived at our place. As a result, Andy and I spent the days watching Journey to the West on the telly and polishing our extremely rusty Chinese, while begging Dad not to spoil the story.

"Porridge again?" I ask, not even trying to hide my disappointment at my meal, "And what are _those_?"

I sniff at the little red worm-like clots in the bowl, whatever they are, I'm not going to like them.

"Goji berries," says Mum pointedly, "Gran made the porridge specifically for you - she's worried about that cough of yours."

"Why can't I have that pear water you brew?" I ask.

"Your fever advises against it," Mum says stiffly. So this is another of Gran's 'traditional theories', then. Mum always brew pear for us whenever we suffer from coughs, and she'd let very little stop her. Andy and I never particularly liked the brew, but it definitely sounds much more likable than this bowl of worms in front of me. Today, however, I see a lost cause, as Mum told me early on that unless I keep my own temperature under control, I stand no case against Gran. According to Mum, Gran wanted to get me admitted to the Children's Hospital via the Emergency department our first night here, and I'm lucky to have been allowed to stay home and rest.

Andy and Dad, both back to full health after three days of restricted food treatment, are allowed to have a full breakfast with Mum and my grandparents. I scowl down at my bowl as the smell of sesame shaobings (1) and fried eggs diffuse into my nostrils, making my designated meal even more unfathomable.

"You sound, and look better today," Mum observes, her tone softened somewhat at my reluctance, "I'd put up with it and focus on avoiding another ill-person's meal if I were you."

I relent and take her advice. The first bite doesn't turn out as badly as I anticipated - at least Mum has the sense of adding sugar in my poison-like breakfast. Then, as I chew briefly, the acerbic and metallic taste of the 'worms' get the better of me.

"This stuff can't even be called food!" I mutter under my breath and make a face. Fortunately, only Andy hears it, and he mercilessly sniggers before munching at _his_ breakfast loudly.

"Your manners, Andi," Gran appears from the kitchen, another plate full of what look like yellow and red cakes in her hands, "Your Laoye (2) and I have bought some pea cakes (3) and hawthorn cakes for you and Qian'er, and your Dad. The choiceful finest snacks in Beijing, these are."

I pick up my chopsticks hopefully and, since no one's yet stopped me, scrape off the corner of a hawthorn cake. I daresay it's so much better than the bowl of wormed porridge I've been assigned to eat.

"Do try to finish your bowl," Mum hisses at me as Grandpa emerges back from the balcony. He must have been taking care of his parrots after his - their - morning walk earlier.

"Your brother and sister-in-law are coming this afternoon," he announces as he sits down and picks up a shaobing with his chopsticks, "After little Yu's piano lessons."

"Yu plays the piano?" I splutter, dropping another piece of hawthorn cake into my porridge while trying to conceal my surprise.

"He's a wonderful chap, once you get to know her," Gran beams at the thought of my only cousin, "You both are, too," she adds, but I have a faint feeling that it's not the end of her sentence.

"If only you and your mother are boys," My brother whispers into my ear, finishing Gran's sentence in disgusted irony that resonates my own. Sometimes, I think my brother's sharper and more passionate about certain issues than he lets on.

"They'll probably want to go out with us," Mum says in a pacifying manner, "Oscar and Andy are fine, though Qian'er needs more rest for the afternoon activities."

Blessed by some miracle, I feel so much better by the time my uncle's family arrives that even gran doesn't protest against us taking a walk at Jingshan Park (4). It's about five _li_ (5) from where we live, and since my family doesn't own a bike, we take the bus. It's the first time our family has been out in the public since our taxi ride home, and Dad, being a foreigner, is getting loads of curious points and stares. Through Dad's stiff gestures, I secretly thank God that he's holding his horses, yet a few ladies in their late 50's can't seem to do the same.

"That's your husband?" I hear one of them ask Mum, who is standing almost just beside her, a flattery smile on her round face.

"Yes, that is my husband," says Mum, apparently taken by surprise by the banter.

"And those your kids?" the lady with long face and long hair sniffs at Andy and me, "A son and a daughter - that's some good fortune you've got, lass."

"Thanks," Mum answers politely.

"Do they understand Chinese though?" the lady with round face asks, "You know - I hope they haven't forgotten their root -"

"My sister and I speak perfectly fluent Chinese," my brother chimes in, showing off his - our - Beijing dialect that definitely makes Mum proud.

"And Dad understand what you're talking about," I say, taking a step closer to Dad and Andy.

"But you don't understand classical Chinese verses," Yu, my brother, says sharply, "you don't know 'Unwiped by wildfire, reborn in spring breeze'(6). Nor have you learned 'A thousand miles begin with a single step'(7)。"

My brother looks like he wants to yell at Yu when I raise my eyebrow, "We speak two languages, that makes us even."

"It takes three fish to feed three cats in three minutes," Yu's immediate retort loses me in bewilderment, "How many fish does it take to fee nine cats in nine minutes?"

"That's silly," I say, astonished by the question, "Why would you feed nine cats at the same time? And why do you time them - they don't like to be for -"

"Twenty-seven," My brother raises his voice to speak over mine, "and you can leave my sister alone, now."

"But she doesn't even understand the question!" exclaims Yu, "You only know it because you're two years above me, and you're way too slow in figuring it out - neither of you will pass the exams, yet Mum and Dad say you're good. No, you're bad students!"

"Yu, be polite!" My Aunt screeches. It seems that Andy's raised voice got the attention from the adults, and they've been watching us for the past half a minute.

"And you are rude, and arrogant," my brother hisses, "It's better to be ignorant and kind."

"Andy," Gran intervenes, "Both you and Qian'er are nice kids, but you've got to be more humble and learn from your cousin. 'Among three, there must be someone I can learn from'(8), yeah?"

I hear my brother grumble indistinguishably under his breath, yet he doesn't pick another fight. I, however, understand him wholly. I've only known Yu for less than an hour, yet he's just an arrogant tosser - it is him that needs to learn, not us! But I, like my brother, refrain from commenting.

The afternoon goes by smoothly after the episode. We walked around Jingshan, a hill piled up from the dirt that was carried out to build the river that surrounds the Forbidden City. There's a pavilion on top of the hill, the highest point of the Old City of Beijing up until just a few decades ago. We can see the entire Forbidden City from the pavilion, and we take loads of family pictures to commemorate the moment. Then, on our way down, Gran points us the tree on which a Ming Minister hung - the Bent-Neck Tree, as she calls it. Grandpa tells us that the tree's supposed to be bent by the Minister's suicide, yet both Andy and I doubt the fact. Andy sniggers quietly into my ear when Grandpa tells us the story.

It's a bit after six when we finally come down from the hill, yet it takes us another three quarters of an hour to make it to the exit. The sheer amount of traditional leisure activities captivates Dad, Andy, and me, and we stop at every station to watch people as old as Granpa writing calligraphy and poetry on the ground using brushes as big as broomsticks, children younger than me playing with their diabolas, and families no different than ours playing with Chinese shuttlecocks. We stand and watch until Yu protests grumpily that he's starving.

When we finally make it back home, it's too late to cook dinner. My aunt and uncle decide that it's proper to eat at a restaurant across the street from home, and guides us into a courtyard (9) that looks like just a normal residence. When we step inside, however, I am impressed by the yard's decoration: tables as high as my knees scattered around the yard, and chairs - Mazha'ers (10) as Gran and Grandpa call them - surround the tables, looking like a simple, crude children's play set. However, groups of shirtless middle-aged men, a beer on one hand and a lamb-on-a-stick on the other, haranguing, their faces brightened by the red lanterns that line the yard, disrupts the image of the child play, and adds flavour to the Hutong restaurant.

We put two square tables together for the nine of us, settle down, and start ordering. Everything on the menu is inexpensive compared to food in the UK. Among the nine people, we manage to put together a meal that comprises of traditional Beijing dishes, typical home dishes, specialty dishes that aren't easily made at home, and a Southern-Chinese soup to feed Dad's craving. I feel my need as the waitress walks away with our order and stand up.

"Where are you going?" Mum asks.

"The loo," I tell her quietly, get her permission, and leave the table. I find another waitress and ask for the directions to the loo, and set off.

It's a warm night, one that's considered cool in early August in Beijing, courtesy to the previous night's rain. Though as I walk deeper into the Hutong(11), I feel the humid, warm air building up, making my clothes stick on my skin: more rain's on the way. I look up. Despite the overcast night, a handful of stars shine their way through the clouds. There's no summer's breeze, and the night, beside me, seems to be perfectly still.

Then I smell it. It's something indescribable, like fermented feces mixed with some sort of toxic substance. The smell makes its way up my nostrils so strongly that I have to pause to catch my breath, before resuming my walk again. Thanking goodness that I haven't eaten, praying for the best while preparing myself for the worst, I take a few more steps, and feel the disappointment as I find the public washroom sign.

Carefullying controlling my breaths, I step inside. The loo is perpetuated by darkness, but so does the hallway to our flat. I stomp my feet, and the light turns on, yet the scene before me freezes me on my feet. I stare at the inside of the room, then, without realising what I am doing, I turn and run.

A minute later, I burst into the yard-restaurant, panting at a confused table of people, "I - I can't go to the loo..."

"Breath, Qian'er," Mum always has the ability to calm me down whenever I feel disquieted, "And tell us what's wrong."

I take a deep breath and goes on, "There's no - no toilet in the toilets..."

I cough, feeling myself blush as my words make no sense at all, even to myself. After all the years of my parents' teaching, I feel ashamed that I panick to the point of not able to use my words, yet Mum and Dad seem both unconcerned so far. They look more worried than anything, and so does Andy. My grandparents, aunt, and uncle all look bemused, and Yu, my cousin, scrutinises at me curiously.

"What do you mean, Qian'er, that there's no toilet in the toilets?" My aunt splutters, "What's in the toilet, then?"

"Slits… Cracks on the floor," I tell them, while trying to put away that vivid image out of my mind, "And… And flies… They're everywhere..."

Understanding dawns in Mum's eyes, and Dad soon follows suit. Before neither of them can speak, however, a howl of harsh laughter makes me jump slightly. Yu apparently finds the whole event beyond hilarious, yet a stern glare from my aunt shuts him up effectively.

"The cracks on the floor are the toilets, Qian'er," Mum takes my hand and guides me to her laps gently, "Remember when I told you and Andy that sanitary infrastructures in China aren't as advanced?"

I nod. Memories of that day of barraged mental preparation flush back into my mind, and Mum's words ring in my head.

"Well, with those slits, or cracks, there's no need to flush, is there?" Mum continues in a brisk manner, "Droppings go straight into the sewers," I nod again, feeling embarrassed as Yu seems to be on the verge of going hysterics despite his mother's scoldings, "It's not hygiene, that much is true. But it's perfectly safe for even little kids as long as they're careful."

I scowl at Mum. Is she implying that I'm no better than little kids? I think back at the 'slits on the floor', and find them unlikely members of the five-year-old-friendly club. I know what I want the most, but would admitting it mean I'm really less courageous than preschoolers?

"Do you want me to go with you?" Mum asks finally, sensing my internal struggles.

"Yes, please. Thank you, Mum," I speak so fast that it takes Mum a second to understand. I've already slipped off her laps as I spoke, and Mum stands up, still holding my hands, and steers me towards the restaurant gate again. I hear Yu snigger behind my back, and spare myself a second to picture Andy glaring daggers at him.

"I'm sorry," I start as soon as Mum and I are out in the Hutong again, "I shouldn't have panicked, and..."

"It's fine," Mum says, "I expected something like this happening sooner or later - though you and your brother are surprisingly tolerant of many things."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you've both lived a relatively sheltered life, and thank goodness you have," Mum begins, though she appears more to be talking to herself, "You're compassionate, resilient and capable, that's true, but you haven't seen much of the world yet. You haven't experienced poverty, nor much of the discrimination back in Britain. None of the ones close to you have been even threatened let alone taken away, you've had smooth journeys at school, and I'm much relieved to say so."

Mum swallows.

"You haven't faced much adversity because Dad and I are always there to help, even when you don't realise. We believe it's better to expose you to world's miseries slowly, we want you, especially when you were younger, to understand before being caught up in many situations, and that's what's happened. But now, you've both grown up, and we know that you'll have surprises thrown your way before long, and it's best to prepare for them.

"Dad and I have been planning this trip for over a year. It's not only a family holiday, but also a journey to find your roots, your heritage. It's also a trial to you as you'll be at the front of two seemingly colliding cultures. We know all along that some shocks are bound to occur, though I'd expect Andy picking a fight against Gran rather than you being outwitted by the publish washroom."

I snort at Mum's badly attempted humour, though I'll never admit a room of slits can be called a 'washroom'.

"Life's full of surprises, and you'll get used to them eventually," Mum tells me as she enters the room first, raising her voice so that the light turns on before I go in, "I can help you, but I think you're strong enough to do it on your own."

"I'll be fine," I say as I make my way among the slits, "I reckon if you could stay..."

"Happily," says Mum as she turns to face the wall.

* * *

The next few days go by in an orderly swirl. Every morning, Grandpa goes for a walk with his parrots, and takes home breakfast and some fresh produce. Gran spends most of her time in the kitchen, cooking. My family spend the mornings visiting different places in Beijing, mainly for Andy's and my benefits. Yu's family usually visit in the afternoon, and though my cousin's annoying, those visits turn out okay. We usually visit the bookshops nearby, and have dinner together at home. After dinner, everyone except my grandparents go swimming in the Worker's Stadium Pool, yet I'm forbidden from going with them for my lingering cough. To appease my constant protests, Grandpa agrees to take me to Huangchenggen Park, a park just two blocks away, every evening with his giant calligraphy brush. I take the opportunity to play with the waist-high brush, while Grandpa is successful in teaching me to write a handful of Chinese characters.

The order and peace takes a turn on August 9th, the day after 'the Start of Autumn'(12). One of my second cousins invite us on a road trip to Inner Mongolia to 'gain some Autumn fat'(12), and even goes so far as to lend us one of their cars. My aunt and uncle excuse themselves as Yu has extra classes, and my grandparents are invited to an retiree's event. Unable to refuse their warm-heartedness, Mum says yes, yet heaven only knows it's the start of what feels like a downward spiral.

We set off in the early morning, yet the previous night's humidity doesn't seem to be alleviating by the morning sun. As a result, it becomes a steaming pot in our car by noon - the AC has broken down not long after our departure. The grassland we visit turns out to be a piece of flat, dry land on which stand a layer of rocks, holes, and dead turf. Then, as we check into our Mongolian-style accommodation, the clerk at reception refuses to take our passports as acceptable ID, because he can't understand English. By dinner, tension is reaching a point where Andy and I want nothing but running wild on the lifeless pasture.

Then comes dinner. Mum's cousin takes upon himself to play the host and offers to pay for the meal, we accept because it's regarded as tradition and manner. What we don't expect, however, is that man and his family ordering twice as much food as needed and taking out three bottles of spirits from their car, while calling for more.

"Xiao Li (13), David, it's been ten years, and let's down this for old time's sake," says mum's cousin, Bing, after he makes sure my parents' glasses are full. They toast, Bing finishes his drink in one gulp while Mum and Dad puts theirs down after a sip.

"C'mon, Oscar," persuades Bing, "You're a foreigner, you're supposed to be the best drinker amongst us - see, my little kid's got more balls than you."

Sure enough, Bing's 14-year-old son helps himself to a bottle of beer, opens it with his teeth, and downs it in one go. I steal a glance at Andy, and he is utterly shocked with his eyes popped open and jaw dropped.

"I'll drink as I see fit, thank you," says Dad politely. Under his smile, his eyes are full of concern. Mum shifts in her chair.

"Oi, Xiao Li!" calls Bing as he refills everyone's glass, "See it here? Your cousin me has brought the best of his collection here, aren't you going to bestow me some face and join the celebration?" He finishes another shot.

Mum and Dad refuse again, but the persuasion continues. It isn't until Andy refuses his drink by slapping Bing's arm when Bing's wife, Hong, joins the effort, "Lili (14), Oscar, you don't need to hold up pretenses. It's a celebration, after all."

Gradually, Mum and Dad's defenses are falling apart, and I can see it. With each comment, Bing and his wife gets ruder and more aggressive, with moral and emotional threat every step of the way. It doesn't help when their son reaches for more beer once in a while, without being stopped by either of his parents.

Before the dishes are all served, Mum and Dad start going along with them, livening up the adult side of the table. By the time the main course is up, Mum, Dad, and Bing has finished three full bottles of spirits, plus a dozen beers with some help. I can't help but notice that Bing's wife is neither forced nor invited to drink, and his son, no matter how indulged on beer he is, is dissuaded from having spirit.

 _It isn't fair_ , I think to myself as I initiate attack on yet another bowl of rice. It's my third bowl of the night, and my stomach feels like it's about to explode. Yet I keep eating, because eating is easier than doing nothing and watching my parents stuttering their way through their loud conversation, because eating is easier than focusing on Andy's shaking hands. Swallowing also helps because I can feel more coughs building up inside me.

"Three more beers!" yells Bing. The night simply doesn't seem to end, yet how I wish I'm already in bed and this is just a dream…

The beers are up. But maybe the waitress set them down too hard, because as soon as they touch the table, _bang_ , a bottle explodes. Foam and beer splatters everywhere, spoiling a table full of food, my rice included.

"Sorry, sir," the young waitress, no older than 18, looks startled.

"Nay, lass," says Bing, "Breaks it today, safe for a year, just clean up and get some more."

The waitress turns to get her stuff when -

"No."

Andy stands, his posture so tense that his hands are still shaking even now they're made into fists. He seems to realise the same problem, and twists his arms in front of him. He looks tall, being the only one standing by our table.

"No, you will not get more beer," states Andy. Even though his entire body is now shaking slightly with anger, his voice is cool and steady, "You will bring us the bill and we'll leave after we pay."

"C'mon, lad," stammers Bing, "Us adults are just having fun, you can't stop us."

"Can't-I?" Andy squeezes between his grinding teeth, "I'd-like-you-try-stopping-me! You lied to us and brought us to this sh*tty place, wasted your dough on a unnecessarily large amount of food and alcohol, got my parents, your kid, and yourself intoxicated, and scared my baby sister - what kind of person are you, eh? Where's your conscience?"

Bing tries to stand up from his chair, only to be pushed back into it by Andy.

"Listen -"

"I WON'T!" Andy screams so loud that the whole restaurant turns and watches us, "I DON'T LISTEN TO OLD DRUNK B*****DS LIKE YOU! YOU'VE GOT NO RESPECT, NO COMPASSION AND NO EMPATHY! _YOU_ FORCED MY PARENTS DRINK WHEN THEY DIDN'T WANT TO. _YOU_ SPOILED YOUR OWN FUN!"

Andy seizes my hand and drags me up, "My sister and I are leaving, with our parents. You can drink to your own death here."

With that, he turns and tries to help Dad up. There is some quiet murmurs between them, but I refuse to let myself pay attention, and instead focus on getting Mum out of there.

"M's okay. M's not drunk," splutters Mum as we make our way to our yurt. I feel her weight as she leans on me for support. Half way through our journey, she takes a step too big and stumbles. It is pure luck that I'm able to hold her upright, and when we resume our walk, I feel dry, tightening pain building up at the back of my nose.

Dad is already out on one end of our wide bed-for-four by the time Mum and I come in, and Andy is digging through the drawers for something. I set Mum on the other end and make sure she's as comfortable as she can be and under her covers. Andy walks to us with a bin coated with a plastic bag.

"Can't find any buckets," he explains as he sets the bin down at Mum's side, "Thought I'd use the bins so they don't have to rush outside to vomit."

I say nothing. My brother walks to the other side of the room and sits down by the fireplace - nights on the grassland feels more like nights in England, and it gets cold without fire. I shiver as I realise it.

"Come here, Qian'er," calls Andy, "They'll be fine."

"How d'you know that?" Although reluctant, I choose sitting down over pacing, mainly for the warmth.

"They're breathing, aren't they?" he says, sounding as if there can't be a simpler question, "As long as they're breathing, they'll be fine."

"But what if they - " I take a deep breath, the implication of that prospect is so horrifying that I can't bring myself to think about it for one more second, but I need that confirmation so badly that I continue, "What if they stop breathing?"

"We'll call an ambulance and they'll bring them back," he says stiffly, with the confidence I know that's false. But somehow Andy makes me feel better. The pain behind my nose peaks, and tears finally rushes out of my eyes.

"There, there," whispers Andy as I bury my head inside his chest, "You women have got some strange things to cry about."

I chuckle. But it soon turns to cough and Andy starts patting my back with his big, warm hands.

"Better now?" he asks as I finally stop to catch my breath. I let out a noncommittal hum.

"You need to rest," he says with the authority of a parent.

"No, I don't," I protest, "Mum and Dad -"

"I can take care of them myself, they're pretty out of it."

I scowl at him, and he sighs.

"I need you to sleep tonight, Qian'er, because you sound worse than you've been all week, and I'm not taking care of a third person."

"But what if -"

"I'll let you know if anything happens to them," says Andy, finally losing his patience, "Now, get ready for bed."

"Then you're coming with me."

"Fine."

Together, we wash up and get changed. Slipping in between our parents, I tell Andy, "I love you, Ge."

"Love you too, lil' sis" is the last thing I hear before I embrace my own exhaustion.

* * *

We are on our way home the next day. Mum and Dad are still weak, but they are fit enough for the 6-hour drive, and when they apologize to us about the previous night, both Andy and I wave it away.

"It happens, Mum, Dad, we understand," we say.

But with this lesson, we again restrict our activity to Beijing and the mountains in its rural area, and refuse offers from anyone other than Mum's closest family and friends. The next two weeks consists of culture-rich tourism, Grandpa's calligraphy brush, and the bookstore, and although Andy and I still fight with our cousin Yu, we generally have a good time. The night before we take the Portkeys back, as I flick through my newest copy of _Journey to the West_ , Grandpa comes in with a handful of olive-looking fruits.

"Freshly picked dates," announces Grandpa proudly as he sets them into a bowl on my desk, "A friend of mine has a tree, and these are the first fruit of the season. Figure you haven't had fresh dates before, eh?"

"No," I say, helping myself to one of the green/brown looking "olives". It's very different from dried dates we eat in England. It's wet, but not as juicy as apples and asian pears, and it's less sweet than many other fruits. Yet the aromatic scent and refreshing taste are right up my alley.

"Like it?"

I nod, and Grandpa cracks a smile. The lines on his wrinkled face come together when he smiles, and his teeth, yellow from smoking, are bared, yet I don't find it scary at all.

"There's loads, have'em all. We'll pack you some for your trip back, too. - You're reading in Chinese?"

I show him the book. It is truthfully my first book that's completely written in Chinese, and Mum's bought two different dictionaries just to help me read it. So far, I've been coping.

" _Journey to the West_ , a good choice!" Grandpa chortles, "You like Monkey Sun(15)?"

"More captivated by the magic," I shrug. It is the truth. Ever since I was introduced to the work by TV, I've been fascinated by the idea of Chinese magic. Now that I know magic exists, I can't help but finding myself delving into mythology in both cultures, and _Journey to the West_ is one of the best stories I've read.

"Interested in the magic, are you?" Grandpa nods to himself as he appears to think, "If you want, lass, I've got the original version - not the kids' one. I've also got loads of mythology in my room, stories of Nvwa(16), ghosts and the nine tailed fox(17). You can take'em to England with you, because no one else is interested in them now that Yu thinks them kids' stories."

"Really?" This can't be real… I've been trying to find more magic stories on our numerous trips to the bookstore and come back with nothing, and now Grandpa offers me his entire collection of his…

"We're out of space," a voice comes from behind. I turn around, and Mum stands at the threshold, smiling, "You can take three more books with you, Qian'er. And leave Grandpa's original copies alone."

"And here I thought my daughter likes to see her daughter reading."

"Dad, that's enough," says Mum, rolling her eyes, "Your original copies are treasures, and you should keep them. Besides, Qian'er's reading skill needs a load more training before she can read texts written five hundred years ago."

The matter is settled by Mum's rules after five more minutes of debate, and I am asked to hug Grandpa goodnight. Tomorrow, we'll rise early, and only have brief moments to say goodbye before we take a taxi to the Airport, where our return-trip Portkey sits waiting.

* * *

Notes

(1) Shaobings: A kind of baked, layered flatbread commonly seen in northern China. In Beijing, the layers are usually filled with sesame paste and the bread itself dipped in sesame before baking.

(2)Laoye: how people from Northern China call their grandpas.

(3)Pea cakes: Like hawthorne cakes, they are a type of (traditionally royal) desserts in Beijing cuisine. It is extremely hard to find good pea cakes outside Beijing's 2nd Ring Road.

(4)Jingshan Park: A hill/park just across the Forbidden City. Although still a tourist attraction, it's cheaper admission rate means that many locals go for walks there, too. You can see the entire Forbidden City - and more - from the pavilion at the top of the hill.

(5) _Li_ : A length unit commonly used up until decades ago. 1 _li_ =0.5km, 5 _li_ =2.5km. Today young people tend to use SI units, though traditional measurements are still widely understood. 5 li

(6)Unwiped by wildfire, reborn in spring breeze: 野火烧不尽，春风吹又生. It's a quote taken from one of Bai Juyi's poems, translation credits to myself.

(7)A thousand miles start with a single step: 千里之行，始于足下, quoted from Laozi's _Daodejing_. Translation credits to Google translate as far as I can find.

(8)Among three, there must be someone I can learn from: 三人行，必有我师焉, quoted from Confucius' _Lunyu_.

(9)Courtyard: 四合院, a type of traditional residential architecture designs with one-story buildings surrounding a yard and functioning as four walls as well as living rooms. For richer people, buildings and walls can also be built to separate multiple yards. Beijing is infamous for such yards, yet many has been destroyed over the years. Now there are a few only to be found deep in the Hutongs of the city centre.

(10)Mazha'er: Collapsible and portable seating devices as tall as one's calf/knee, made from metal tubes and linen straps. It's much stronger than it looks!

(11)Hutong('er): Alleyways in Beijing's city centre, full of the city's life and culture.

(12)Start of Autumn: A special day in China that often lands around 6th of August. It is said to get cooler after this day of the year, and people always eat a meaty meal as a tradition to "fatten for the winter".

(13)Xiao Li: Kathy's Mum is named Li (her last name is Gu). This is a call of endearment.

(14)Lili: Another call of endearment.

(15)Monkey Sun: Or Sun Wukong, protagonist of _Journey to the West_.

(16)Nvwa: or Nuwa, A Chinese Goddess that's thought to have created humans and patched up the sky.

(17)Nine tailed fox: also known as Fox Spirit or Huli Jing. A creature in Chinese mythology, usually to be thought evil.

* * *

 **A/N: I hope a whole chapter set in China (and a chapter of cultural references) doesn't scare people away... Cheers to everyone who's made it through the chapter!**

 **Again, as you can all see, I'm in desperate need of some reviews here... So please, spend a few minutes of your life and tell me what you think!**

 **0902FRIENDs**


	6. 6 Menstration, Mudblood, and Mentors

6\. Menstration, Mudblood, and Mentors

September the first can't come faster since I've only got a week to pack all my stuff into the suitcase. Although most of my textbooks and school supplies are in, there's also the "living" component in going to a boarding school, and it gets increasingly more difficult to keep on track of things.

"Where are my spare pair of pyjamas?" I shout from my room, "I can't find them anywhere!"

"In the laundry, they'll be ready in the morning," Mum yells from the kitchen, "Pack whatever you can first!"

In the end, I collected my clothes, back-up pens, pencils and notebooks, a second-handed Canon EOS 500N, all the books and dictionaries I brought back from China, and, after an exhausting debate with Dad, my rugby ball and gears. Then, just as I was getting ready to bed, Mum appeared at my door, holding a pile of sanitary products.

"What on earth, Mum?" I ask. I know fully well what those stuff do, but why would Mum load me up on the things I don't need, I've no idea.

"Just in case," Mum says, easily finding space for them in my seemingly-full suitcase, "You may need them anytime now."

I wonder how Mum can keep a straight face, because I'm convinced that my face is glowing, and I can't help but snort.

"What? There's nothing to be ashamed of - or to laugh about!" Mum exclaims over my giggling, "It's a good thing for girls to get their periods, and if I'm not there to witness my daughter's yet another milestone, I might as well prepare her for it!"

"I dunno," I say, still laughing, "You look like a tea man walking in just like that, except with a pile of tampons..."

"Do I, now?" Mum corks up an eyebrow teasingly, "For your information, I've got both tampons and pads in there."

"Mum!" I'm taken by surprise by her casual tone, "I thought you were in for a serious conversation?"

"I'm in for a conversation, and although it's an important one, it by no means needs to be serious," says Mum, "First and foremost, I trust you with boys."

"Mum!" I protest again, but Mum holds up a hand and stops me.

"Liking someone is perfectly normal, I want you to remember that even when you get teased for being too close with a boy," says Mum, "You can like him as a friend, a sibling, or a boyfriend, and it's your choice and your choice only.

"That being said," Mum walks over to my desk and sits down in my chair, "I want you to really get to know someone before deciding if you like them. Boy, girl, man, woman. You and your brother have been fairly good at empathising, to which I'm grateful. But I would like you to keep at it now you're going into a new world by yourself."

"Is it because of how we treated Yu?" I ask. Even after three weeks of doing things together, my brother and I still can't stand Yu's regular outbursts of arrogance, and it did create a few problems during our trip to Beijing.

"He's under a great deal of pressure going into Year 6," says Mum, "Getting into a middle school in China is so competitive that he needs to convince himself that he's good enough for it."

"Oh," I say.

"I didn't expect you to understand, because you didn't know," says Mum, throughout the conversation, she keeps a soft tone, and I know I'm not being blamed, "But from now on, when you see someone doing something you don't approve, I'd like you to think of at least one excuse for them, -"

"Because people always do things for a reason," I chorus, finishing Mum's lines, "And good people can do bad things for a good reason."

"That's my lass," Mum smiles, "I know we've raised you right."

I make a face that makes Mum chuckle.

"Also, if a girl asks you for a tampon, always lend her one," she continues, "Some people consider periods a private affair, and it's embarrassing for them to ask for sanitary products. There's no need to make the matter worse. And if you're running out, just write home and we'll get you more."

"Don't worry, Mum, I'll be able to refill my stash with magic by then," I say.

The truly shocked expression on Mum's face is priceless, yet it only lasts for a second. Then she roars into laughs in a way that I've never seen.

"Oh the wit you've got in that head of yours..." she says, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, "Oh… How I wish I'm ever ready to send you away..."

"Mum?" I ask, alert.

"I'm fine," says Mum, rising from my chair, "You didn't upset me. It's just a parent thing. You should really go to bed."

She turns off the light for me, exits my room, leaving me on my bed feeling slightly bewildered and guilty. I sit there in the dark for a few minutes, get out of bed to find the family pictures we took this past summer, and tuck them safely into my Chinese books. Now I can sleep peacefully.

The four-hour drive from Manchester to London means an early departure, yet we still make it as a family trip. We arrive in London before 10am, and have a few minutes to spare before all Muggleborn first-years are supposed to gather in between Platform 9 and 10 for our tickets. Thus, Mum and Dad decide it's fit to stop at Poppies and treat us. It's one of the few chances my brother and I are allowed to have fish and chips and frizzy drinks, to we gladly take it. Then, before we head to King's Cross, Mum ordered extra takeaway chips and salad for me in case I get hungry on the train, even though I, believing Justin's words, ensure her that I'd be able to buy snacks throughout the journey.

Many people from our Orientation are here to help us. I spot Harry and Ginny first, then Ron and Hermione. They don't look too happy, but when they greet us their smiles were genuine. Then Justin comes up to us, greets us, and Harry's lot.

"Susan's not here?" he asks. I can't remember who this Susan is, but I think she was there at the Orientation… Did she wear a tartan skirt that day?

"She's on Holding Cell duty with Sally Anne and Dean since I volunteered to be here," Harry makes a face, "Can't say I'm jealous, though I guess I'm the only Auror here..."

"Mate, you don't have to remind us _that_ fact, do you?" asks Ron, though he's smiling, "He's mad at me for quitting as an Auror," he tells me.

"I'm not mad at you," says Harry, "The three of us have been together for seven years and now we're off doing three different things. It's hard adjustment, that's all."

"Yeah, and your girlfriend's off to school without you," says Ginny, stealing a peck from Harry's cheek, making him grin in a really silly way.

"Yeah, and that," he says, returning the kiss.

"Will you two stop it," interrupts Ron, "We've got work to do here."

They break apart. Following Ron's finger, I see two more families joining us, the Murphys and the Sloans.

"We didn't want an early morning so we spent last night here," Amelia informs me, "And we met Brodie in the hotel. His owl gave him away."

Indeed, Brodie Sloan is carrying a harassed-looking owl.

"We live in th' highlands," says Brodie, clearly dissatisfied, "It's much easier tae just gang there on our own, but apparently th' train ride is mandatory."

"Everyone finds their first friends on the Hogwarts Express," says Justin helpfully, "You'll see soon enough that it's much better than making your own way to the school."

"Aye, says someone who lives in London," says Brodie cheekily.

"Well, I've a friend who lives in Cumbria, and she travels down twice every year to catch the train," says Justin, now digging inside his pockets, "Here they are," he pulls out a few pieces of parchment, "Your tickets. Now, let's get you lot onto the train, eh?"

"Platform 9 ¾," asks Amelia, "There isn't a Platfrom 9 ¾!"

But Justin just laughed and waved at the rest of our families. Soon, we are striding down the hall as an impressive group of people.

We arrive at the last pillar, where no one is close enough to give us any unwanted attention, and then Neville appears out of the pillar. I let out a scream and Brodie jumps back, yet Amelia seems unfazed.

"Welcome, kids," he smiles down at us warmly, "To get to the Platform, you just need to walk into the pillar." Then he turns around, walks head on into the pillar, and disappears again.

We look at each other, gobsmacked.

"Nev's right," says Justin, "Just do it, no one will get hurt."

I am just starting to wonder if I should poke my hands at the pillar to test it when Amelia, geared with her rucksack and trunk, walks at it, and disappears, too.

"And you say I'm rough," I mutter. Andy snickers.

Amelia's family followed her, though I think they want to find her more than anything. Then, Andy and I make our way to the pillar with Justin's encouragement.

"That's right," says Justin as I put my hand onto - into - the pillar, "Just walk through it."

"Race you," I say, and before my brother can react, close my eyes embrace the pillar. When I open my eyes, it is like a whole different world: the Platform itself is in a much older style than the rest of King's Cross, and people are bustling around, bidding farewells.

"Ellie, Ellie! Where are you going?" I hear a man howling as I walk down the steam train, "Don't go with them! Come back! They're bad people, they'll hurt you!"

I wonder who 'they' are, as no one seems to be stirring trouble. Parents and kids are hugging, saying their goodbyes, and, although sometimes there are tears, I can't think of anything so dangerous that can send a father into such a state of panic.

"C'mon, Kathy!" Amelia appears from a window by my side, "I've found us and Brodie a compartment, let's unload our stuff first."

Mum and Dad have caught up with us a few moments ago, and we are now waiting for another family to step down so that we could board the train. It takes a few minutes to find the compartment, and when we finally do, the Sloans are right behind us.

"It's a bit crowded in here," says Andy after he helps Dad secure my truck on the luggage rack, "Can we go back to the Platform?"

"Well, we aren't the ones boarding the train, so we'll have to," says Dad, "Kathy, you mind coming down to say the goodbyes?"

I comply. We walk back onto the Platform where Mum starts another round of advice-giving.

"Try and kind to everyone, will you?" she says, "But do set boundaries - if someone steps out of the line -"

"Call them out politely," I roll my eyes, "I know, Mum. You've been telling us that for years."

"Do write home every week, yeah?" Mum continues, "We'd love to hear all about your life up there."

"Take care of yourself, that's all we ask for," says Dad, sounding more concerned than he looks, "We'd worry if you're ill or injured..."

"And break all the bigoted rules of that posh school," says Andy finally. I make a face, and Mum and Dad don't look concerned by his statement.

"I'll make you proud, Ge," I say, beaming at him.

The whistle is blown, and the bustle on the platform escalates. Mum pulls me into her arms. Soon, Andy and Dad join us, forming a warm family huddle that make my nose hurt.

"Go on, then," Mum pulls out first, and compels me towards the train, "March into this new world and make some awesome friends."

I do as I'm told and board the train. Instead of returning to my compartment, though, I stay in the corridor and wave my family goodbye. That's when I notice Mum's eyes are red-rimmed, though they are dry. She holds Andy in one hand, and wave at me in another as the train starts to accelerate and eventually take its first turn.

"Damn, Ostrovski's going to kill me!" I hear someone mutter loudly as he burst out of a compartment door. It's Harry.

"Sorry, Kathy, but I need to jump out from here," he apologises before peering into the window of which I've been looking out, "You should join your friends," is the last thing he tells me before climbing the window, jumping out of it, and disappearing in mid-air. I feel my jaw drop as he performs the line of action fluidly.

 _Magic_ , I tell myself, _he must be somewhere else now_. I turn from it and look for our compartment.

"I bloody had my rucksack in here first!" I hear an unfamiliar voice, and slow down.

"Yeah, your rucksack which no one can see," screams Amelia, "It was under the seats, and you can't blame me for not seeing it!"

I slide the door open. Amelia stands in the middle of the compartment, looking down at a tall, pale, bony girl who's cowering towards the corner by the window, shielding her rucksack with her skinny arms.

"What's going on?" I ask. Now both girls stare at me. I feel my face glow hot.

"She wants us out," says Amelia accusingly, "Because she puts her rucksack _under_ her seat first!"

"Easy," I say, not understanding what the fuss is about, "We'll just find another -"

"Too late," the compartment door slides open again, and Brodie walks in, "Everywhere else is full."

"Thank, fucking, Merlin," the girl grinds her teeth as she dumps her rucksack onto the floor and kicks it under her seat.

"Wha -" begins Amelia.

"Er - does that mean that we can stay?" I ask. _Be polite_ , I tell myself, but the girls' attitude is alarming.

She shrugs, so I took it as a _yes_ and sit down across from her.

"I'm Kathy, Kathy Walters," I say, "and these are Amelia Murphy and Brodie Sloan."

"Elizabeth Cattermole," says the girl, before falling into silence and reverting her eyes to gaze out of the window.

"Ye haven't gat a trunk?" Brodie attempts again to initiate a conversation, yet another shrug is all we get. Resigned, Brodie sit down by the compartment door.

I look at Amelia, who mouths 'What's the problem with her' at me. I shake my head and pull out my copy of _Introductions for Magical History in the Twentieth Century_ , a book I've only got the chance to read yesterday, and settle down.

"What are you reading?" asks Amelia, "It's not one of the textbooks, is it?"

"Something Justin's suggested," I show her the cover, "It's really well-written, they make history sound like stories."

"I've read that one," Brodie joins in the conversation, "But I think _Hogwarts, A History_ is better."

"Hermione told me it was biased," I say, "so I read it with caution."

"I dunno," Brodie appears to be thinking, "I think the stuff is mostly accurate… What part d'you like the best?"

"The Chamber of Secrets, I think," I say, and Brodie looks aghast, "Don't get me wrong. It's just such an interesting story to hear, that's all. Reminds me of how Chinese people believe there are dragons under water."

Elizabeth huffs quietly, and I turn to her.

"Pardon?" I say.

She doesn't answer. In fact, over the entire trip, she doesn't do much other than staring out of the sodding window. I do, too. The cross-country view is admittedly spectacular. Yet I find myself incapable of staring out for more than a minute at a time. This Elizabeth lass is definitely a strange one.

"I'm guttin'," announces Brodie as we fly across a moor, "Dae ye ken if we'd gie scran?"

"Sorry?" Brodie, for some reason, completely drops his accents when he speaks, and it gives the rest of us a hard time understanding.

"Sorry, I forgot," says Brodie apologetically, "D'ye know if we'll get food on the train?"

"There's supposed to be a trolley selling sweets and stuff," I remember what Justin's been telling me over the emails, "But since we're at the back of the train, it might not come until later."

Then I remember my bag of chips. Digging through my rucksack, I find the now greasy paper wraps, and chuck it at Brodie, "Chips, if you want'em."

"Cheers, ye saved me life," says Brodie with a dramatic sigh that makes Amelia laugh.

Elizabeth shifts uncomfortably in her seat. Her arms, previously hidden by the robes she wears, is now shown, and I can't help but notice how skinny they are. I remember Mum's comment about us not having experienced poverty in the summer. Maybe her family can't afford food, and that's making her act all strange?

"You can share it with Elizabeth," I say without thinking, "I can buy food later."

"No, thanks," is the haughty response I get from the odd girl. Brodie, too, look embarrassed by my reminder. Great, I've managed to shame two of my future classmates before school even starts.

"Anything to eat, dears?" I am saved by the lady who runs the trolley.

Again geared with the information from Justin, I advise Amelia and Brodie on what to buy. After they come back with armfuls of cauldron cakes, chocolate frogs, licorice wands and, in Amelia's case, two boxes of Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans, I try to compensate by buying more food than I actually need. Elizabeth seems unfazed by the food rush, and keeps looking out the window, and I don't dare approach her again.

"Blimey!" I exclaim as I take read my first ever Chocolate Frog card, "Harry's on it!"

Amelia peers in as I read out the back of the card.

"Harry Potter, Trainee Auror and Youngest Seeker since 1891. Harry Potter is also commonly known as the Boy Who Lived, the Chosen One, and more recently, the Savior of Wizarding Britain. He is the only known survivor of the Killing Curse, and his most infamous contribution to the world is defeating You-Know-Who, once in 1981 and for good in 1998."

"1998?" Brodie spots the same thing as I do, "It's 1998 now!"

"D'you think there's something major going on earlier this year?" asks Amelia, "Justin did say things about troubles when he visited my family."

This time, Elizabeth huff's loudly, a truly disgusted look on her face.

"Okay, what is the problem with you?" snaps Amelia at last, "If you've got a problem with us talking, spit it out! You're getting on my nerves!"

"And you're driving me nutters with your ignorant cries!" Elizabeth snaps back, "Don't even know who Harry Potter is… A bloody brilliant bloke, he is, I'm telling you. Now would you kindly inform yourself about the _recent_ events so you don't appear as idiots among us?"

"Well, if you care so much about our appearances," shouts Amelia, "Why don't you kindly inform _us_ what's been going on? I bet you don't even know as much!"

That seems to have struck a nerve, as Elizabeth looks like she wants to rip out Amelia's guts with her bare hands. I jump up, ready to pull them apart, when the compartment door opens again.

"Can I sit with you?" asks a short, chubby boy with his hair a shade of brown so light that he could've passed as a blonde if not for a few streaks of sandy-coloured lock, "The lot I was with weren't nice enough."

"Come in," I say, returning to my seat, "As long as you don't mind -"

"Have you got a problem with Mudbloods?" asks Elizabeth with much animosity.

The boy gasps just as I wonder what a Mudblood is.

"You haven't got to use _that_ derogatory term!" retorts the boy, "And as long as they're nice Muggleborns, I'm fine with them."

Elizabeth seems to acquiesce the boy's entrance as she again turns her gaze out of the window, so the boy, dragging his trunk, settles down before extending a hand that looks disproportionately small to Brodie, who sits closest to the door.

"I'm Richard, you can call me Rick."

One by one, we shake hands and introduce ourselves. When the round ends with a cold "Elizabeth Cattermole", Rick seems to freeze for a brief second.

"So, which one of you is Muggleborn?" he asks, again trying to diffuse the tension, "I don't know much about them, or Muggles, but the people I live with say it's always good to have friends on both sides."

"Sides? We aren't taking sides here," I say, "Brodie, Amelia and I are all Muggleborns, but I'm not sure about Elizabeth."

"I'm a halfblood," says Elizabeth, "If you've got to be nosey and check people's sodding blood status."

"So you're both from wizard families, then?" asks Amelia, "What's it like?"

Rick informs us a few things about typical Wizarding families, and his stories doesn't sound appealing to me. I can maybe learn to write with quills and parchments, but living without electricity? It would drive Andy nutters, subsequently taking me with him.

"So, what house d'you think you'd be in?" Rick pops the question out of nowhere.

"I dunno," Brodie answers first while I try to recall any information on the four houses, "I'd like to think that I've got a brain for Ravenclaw, but I'm not sure how I'll learn magic… Hufflepuff sounds good, too… Just no Slytherin or Gryffindor. They sound too intense for me."

"Slytherin's the ambitious one with a Snake, right?" I say, still trying to refresh my mind, "Gryffindor's got a lion and it's all about bravery - I think you'd be in it, Amelia..."

"Should I be worried? Bravery is not a flaw!" asks Amelia loudly, while Brodie takes over my thoughts.

"Ravenclaw values knowledge and wisdom, and has an eagle as its symbol," he says, "Hufflepuffs care about fairness and kindness, and they've gat a badger on their crests."

"With that memory of yours, you could be a Ravenclaw," I tell him. I'd completely forgotten about Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff. It's a wonder that Brodie remembers so much information from the summer.

"And ye'll make a guid Hufflepuff," says Brodie, "I can see it frae ye."

"Thanks," I say, "Though I think I'm too rough for Hufflepuff. Gryffindor, maybe?"

Brodie gives me a "you just wait" look that makes me seriously question my own personality.

"I'd love to be somewhere other than Slytherin," says Rick ruefully, "But I don't see that happening."

"Why's that?" I ask.

"Both my parents, and everyone I live with are Slytherins, and I'm not as brave as Sirius Black."

"Si -" I start, but Elizabeth cuts me off by standing up and menacing towards the now fearful boy. I jump up instantly, and takes Elizabeth's arm.

"Who the fuck are you?" Elizabeth asks, shrugging off my arm with surprising strength.

"Richard," splutters Rick, "I'm Richard."

"Your fucking last name, son of a -" she has to stop, for I push her onto the window. She's surprisingly light for someone as tall, and she also seems scared by being lifted by me.

"Let-me-down!" She starts kicking in complete panic, and I have to release her. She cowers back into her corner the instant she's on the ground.

"What's wrong, Liz?" I ask, trying to use a short version of the name so that it sounds more friendly, "There's nothing wrong with Slytherins!"

"There is, Kathy," says Rick sadly, "And I apologise for whatever we did to you, Elizabeth. I try to be a good Snake, and I try to be a good Runcorn."

Just as I wonder what a Runcorn is, Elizabeth's head snaps up again. This time, however, her eyes are full of grief and sadness, and it is terrifying to see the change in her face.

"Albert Runcorn," she whispers, her voice so pained and vengeful that I'm starting to worry about her attacking again.

"That's my father, and he's in a Holding Cell now with mother. They'll be in Azkaban once the trials are done," Rick sounds both earnest and desperate, "I'm not proud of them, and I'm ashamed of what they did, to you and to many more. Would you please give me a chance to prove that I'm nothing like them?"

The pain in Elizabeth's eyes transforms into full-on rage when Rick first speaks, but it soon subdues, and is replaced by something I cannot understand. After a few tense seconds, however, Elizabeth speaks, and asks a question none of us are expecting.

"Who do you live with, now?"

"The Greengrass family," answers Brodie thickly.

Elizabeth turns back to the views outside. We are now approaching the highlands fast.

"Azkaban?" asks Amelia.

"Wizarding Prison," says Rick, "They're undergoing major reform right now, that's why everyone's in Ministry Holding Cells waiting for a trial."

"Have there been loads of prisoners?" I ask, reminded of the conversation I overheard in the morning, "The Aurors seem to be stretching to cope."

"Have there been loads of prisoners? Are you joking?" Rick looks at me incredulously, "The entire Ministry is in havoc after - well - after last year, and the Auror Office is the least understaffed of all departments, with the new Muggle Liaison Office the second least! Still, there aren't enough people qualified to do the job. They're making arrests every day, sometimes multiple, and the most they can do now is to keep them locked up in Holding Cells, because Azkaban's still inhabitable. They've exhausted Auror Holding Cells, and now they're using Law Enforcement Cells. It's a joint effort to keep everyone safe, alive, well, and locked-up."

"How -"

"Both of my parents worked in the Ministry last year," says Rick sadly, "And the Greengrass' aren't afraid of telling me things."

"Sorry," I say, feeling bad for bringing the topic back to Rick's parents. He just waves a hand and picks another topic.

Time goes a lot faster now that we've got a better company. At one time, Brodie gets excited over a lake.

"See that?" he points us to a road that branches off to follow the lake, "If ye gang doon that road, ye'd be able tae reach oor croft!"

It takes him some repeating and explaining for us to understand that the road leads to the Sloan's family farm.

Eventually, when the sun's completely sunken into the horizon, we hear the announcement and get changed for our arrival. When the train slows down to a halt, however, I'm feeling anticipation and uncertainty boiling up inside me. I take a few deep breaths, and that seems to help me calm down.

The arrival is filled with anticipation and amazement, with the first view of the Hogwarts Castle from the lake being my favourite scene. The wonderous introduction of the largest Magical institute definitely calms me down, and by the time Hagrid leads us into a side chamber to meet Professor Sprout, the dream-like quality of everything around us subdues.

"Welcome to Hogwarts," Professor sprout says with a big, warm smile on her face, "and congratulations on making it here. The Sorting Ceremony is a tradition at Hogwarts. First years, that means all of you, will have a brief conversation with the Sorting Hat, who will decide which house suits you the best. The four houses are: Gryffindor, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, and Slytherin. Everyone will be sorted into the house to where he or she most belong, so there is really no need to worry."

She pauses and looks around the room. The lines around her eyes deepens as she takes in the relieved faces. "Everyone ready?"

Her words stir a sudden movement of hands stretching their robes, tucking their pockets, and flattening (or messing) hair. I quickly check to see if there is any loose hair covering my ears, and tuck it back gently.

"Wonderful," Professor Sprout looks satisfied, "Please follow me, then."

The Great Hall is as magnificent as described in _Hogwarts, A History_ , and I briefly wonder why there isn't much detail about sorting in the book. Then, as a line, we are lead to face four long, narrow tables filled with students and some pearly white figures. They were mentioned in the book, too, but I can't remember what they're called. The teachers were sitting at the high table behind us. A four-legged stool is put in front of our line, in the middle of the Hall. Upon it sat a wrinkly, ugly-looking wizard's hat. When the buzz of hushed conversation dies down, the hat twists, and sings from its biggest crack.

" _Unity, the essence of success,_

 _Division, the root of corruption._

 _We sit constantly on a scale,_

 _That measures unity and division._

 _When unity dominates,_

 _We witness blooming prosperity._

 _When Division prevails,_

 _We live in constant fear and pity._

 _We've stepped backwards,_

 _And fell into the circle of History._

 _Now it's time to move forward,_

 _To clear a path of victory._

 _At Hogwarts, the time is ripe._

 _The four houses must unite:_

 _With the bold and brave Gryffindors,_

 _Soldiers afraid of neither pain nor death._

 _With the wise, clever Ravenclaws,_

 _Whose intelligence and knowledge delights us all._

 _With the cunning, ambitious Slytherins,_

 _That holds our motivation, a key to success._

 _And with the kind, loyal Hufflepuffs,_

 _Who toil to make sure all are well, and cared for._

 _These are the true reasons behind the houses,_

 _The prospect of respect, understanding, and cooperation._

 _And now, it is time for the newcomers_

 _To know the positions they are most suited for._

 _Put this old, battered hat upon your head,_

 _And I'll lend you the expertise of the Sorting Hat."_

Applause resonates the hall. Students, teachers, and some of the people in the line all join the clapping, as if it is an impressive performance. I guess it is impressive when a hat suddenly start to talk to you, but the song itself doesn't sound as well-tailored. Maybe it's because I already know what all the houses stand for, and those thoughts brings back the wonder of where I would end up.

"When I call your name, please come up and put on the hat," announces a small man in a squealing, laboured voice. I realise that he has been standing beside the stool, but is too short to attract any attention.

The first one to be called up is a girl named Matilda Ambrosio. For some reason, the dark-skinned girl seems to be shaking as she sits down and puts on the hat. After about half a minute, the hat shouts, "SLYTHERIN!"

When Matilda hands the hat back to the little man, she appears to be moderately satisfied, though not entirely happy. I can see the reason: as the table on my far left stands and greets the girl, whispers and murmurs buzz from the other three table. The teachers are quick to catch this, for someone in the centre clears her throat loudly, and the entire hall falls silent.

I dare to steal a look at the person who just cleared her throat. She's an old lady with her hair a mixture of brown and silver. However, she doesn't possess any of the "grandmother traits" as me and my brother always call them: the lines on her face are carved but tight, her lips are thin, and the formidable light in her eyes shows just how capable she is. Then I recognise her. She's Minerva McGonagall, the Headmistress, yet she looks so different from the day of that special visit, and much older, too.

"Bates, John."

A tall, broad-shouldered boy with virtually no hair walks up. He shuffles his feet before putting on the hat. Almost instantly, the hat yells, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Leslie Blair is next, and a few seconds later, she's trudging down the middle of the Hall, joining an applauding table of Ravenclaws. After her, Sicily Brecknell joins Slytherin, while a boy named James Byker becomes the first new Gryffindor.

"Cattermole, Elizabeth"

Liz, who's been standing beside me, walks up to the stool. If she's nervous, she most definitely doesn't show it, but there's still something off about the way she walks. Having left her rucksack on the train, she looks a bit lost, if not clueless. I hold my breath as she appears to be "talking" with the hat. For some reason, it takes a long time for her to be sorted. Then, after what feels like fifteen minutes, the hat announces, cheerfully, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

So we proceed with alphabetical order of surnames. Betty Douglas, the next person I know, is sorted into Ravenclaw, joining Leslie and Kelly Deschamps.

"Kenny, Jason!"

"SLYTHERIN!'

There is a certain smug about the way Jason walks towards the welcoming Slytherin table, and I find myself not liking it. _There's a reason he does that_ , I tell myself, remembering Mum's words.

I watch on with interest, and pay attention to the Muggleborns I've met during the orientation: Keith Lorne becomes a Hufflepuff, while Amelia, as Brodie and I predicted, joins the Gryffindor table in no time. Llewellyn Scott, the posh Welsh boy who can't speak Welsh, follows Amelia.

"Runcorn, Richard."

Rick walks up, looking more scared than anyone else. But I sort of understand his fear. The minute he spends with the hat is very unsettling, and when the hat finally decides to put him in Slytherin, he looks defeated, as if losing an argument. Murmurs again sound in the Hall, and are again hushed my Professor McGonagall.

Then there's Brodie, and it takes less than a minute to know that I'm right: he's a Ravenclaw.

There are only five of us after the S-names are done, and there's no doubt that poor William Yeats, another Muggleborn, will be the last one in line. I feel the pressure with everyone's expectation as the two T's ahead of me are called, and then,

"Walters, Katherine."

 _Good_ , is my very first thought as I walk towards the stool and the small man, _at least they have the sense to add my call name to the list_. I would be very embarrassing to watch the small man struggling to pronounce my name, in front of an entire school.

I sit down, and put the hat on. Despite my efforts, it slides down to cover my eyes.

" _Mmmm… I can see some interesting qualities,"_ murmurs a voice from right behind my ears. I look up before remembering that the _hat_ is _talking_ to me, " _Enough nerves to stay calm facing the unknown, but prefers quietness and simplicity most of the time… There's some wisdom and a thirst to learn, too… And you're confident, very confident… Already reaching out to help… A rare combination, I'd say..."_

The hat seems to be talking to himself, and before I think of something to make it a proper conversation, he "turns" to the hall and shouts, "HUFFLEPUFF!"

Well done, Brodie. I give him a thumb-up as I catch his eye walking down to the table. When the cheers around me die down, I resume my watch, this time from the front side. Within five minutes, both William Yeats and someone named Eugene Weasley (1) are both sorted into Gryffindor. Then, after Professor McGonagall's short announcement, loads of food appears on the golden plates on the tables, and the feast begins. Now settled, I take the time while eating to process the whole Sorting Ceremony, and realise that no Muggleborns has been sorted into Slytherin. Why is that?

I'm just about to inform Elizabeth of this new discovery in hopes of making her more comfortable when a tap on my shoulder makes me jump. I turn around, and an older, sturdy boy with dark red hair smiles apologetically at me. Half of his left ear, I notice, is gone, and his other ear is also distorted. Not wanting to stare, I force myself to look at him in the eyes.

"Katherine Walters?" he asks, his fingers are fidgeting because of the nerves.

"Kathy," I correct him.

"Kathy," he repeats, "I'm Evan, Evan McGill. I'm your mentor."

I look around. Everywhere, older students are standing up, introducing themselves to the first and second years.

"Er - I'm glad to meet you," I say, shaking his hand.

"Yeah," he sounds noncommittal, "Do you have any questions so far?"

"Not really," I say, "Sorry."

He studies me curiously for a second, before saying, "No need to apologise… But you can come to me with, well, almost everything. General questions, problems with professors, homework help, anything."

I nod. Then I suddenly remember something as he tries to speak again.

"Can I ask you something?" I ask. He turns back, and gestures me to go on, "What exactly happened last year?"

Something behind his eyes grows hard and cold, and I instantly regret asking him the question. I'm just about to dismiss the question and apologise, when he shakes his head and sighs.

"You're Muggleborn, eh?" I nod silently, "Well… I don't really want to talk about it, but if you want to know, read the Daily Prophet. I can lend you my copies every morning if you joing me and me friends for breakfast."

I thank him, and let him go back to his friends despite my lingering curiosity. If anything, Evan's answer only makes me more anxious to know about the "trouble" Justin told us about. Yet his pain-filled face makes me instantly guilty about bringing up the topic at all.

It's very late when the desserts disappear, and Professor McGonagall stands almost the exact moment, hushing the conversation around the hall. Now, I begin to admire her ability to silence a roomful of people.

"You're all eager for bed, and I understand, so it's best if we get through this fast." she starts with her usual, stern voice, "First, I would like to introduce, and re-emphasise a few rules. The point system, contrary to what some have heard over the summer, will _not_ be discontinued. However, we the staff wish to use this form of competition to promote cooperation. Acts of inclusion, kindness and understanding will be awarded accordingly, while the opposite will be punished. We will tolerate absolutely no hostile attacks on any and all houses, the offender will face loss of points, detentions, possible expulsion, or even legal charges, depending on severity of the action. There will be no magic in corridors, the only exception is an emergency. The Forbidden Forest, as the name suggests, is Forbidden to all students without adult supervision. And those of you who had been here four months ago know why."

She tightens her lips and let the suspense take over, before resuming, "It's also time to announce a number of recent staff changes. First of all, we have Professor Margaret Underwood as our Defense against Dark Arts professor, and I assure you she's a much more capable teacher than Amycus Carrow." A tall, athletic woman with slightly darker skin stands up between a burly red-haired man and a petite blonde. Along with the over-enthusiastic applause, cheers burst out of all four tables, and, to my surprise, the high table, and I wonder just how awful this Carrow had been.

"Second, we have Charlie Weasley to temporarily take over first to fifth year transfiguration," Professor McGonagall announces over the cheers, a faint smile on her face, "I will still personally instruct the NEWTs level classes. Professor Weasley will only be here for a year, after which we shall find a more permanent solution. Meanwhile, he will also take the post to teach NEWTs level Care for Magical Creatures, so that Professor Hagrid can have more time restoring the Forest."

This time, cheers mainly comes from the Gryffindor table behind me. I turn around, and see two upper-year girls, one with bright red hair and the other with bushy brown hair, waving at the high table, looking proud and excited. They are friends, maybe.

"As you all know from your letters, Muggle Studies is now mandatory," Professor McGonagall continues, "We have two Muggles Studies teachers this year. Professor Mary McDonald will be teaching all Level B classes, as well as Level C-3. The Ministry of Magic also kindly lets us borrow Professor Audrey Webster for all Level A classes and Level C-1 and 2."

This time, however, the applause seems a bit forced, so Professor McGonagall doesn't need to wait.

"I understand that being back here is confusing, and it's difficult for a lot of you, especially with all the recent changes in our system," she says sadly, "That's why the staff has decided to help. You have your heads of houses, Professor Sprout for Hufflepuff, Professor Flitwick for Ravenclaw, Professor Slughorn for Slytherin, and Professor Weasley for Gryffindor. The first and second years can also go to their mentors. Professor Victor, Professor Webster, Professor McDonald, and Professor Underwood also agreed to open their doors to any and all questions you may have regarding your life here at Hogwarts. Other teachers will also try to help as long as you ask for it. Madam Pomfrey is our resident Healer, and deals with all health-related concerns. So please, use the resources made available to you."

Now the Hall looks both downcast and serious. The mood suddenly becomes so grave that I feel like an outsider for not feeling bad. But the moment quickly passes, for Professor McGonagall finally releases us to bed, "Now, you're dismissed. Prefects, please take your first years to the Common Rooms."

(1) There is bound to be more Weasleys out there, for they were once described as "breeding like gnomes". In Bill and Fleur's wedding, Harry also disguised as Barney Weasley, also suggesting the Weasley population is definitely larger than 9.

* * *

 **A/N: And those chapters just keep getting longer... What can I say?** **We're finally back in the magical world and see some real changes since Riddle's defeat.**

 **I hope I'm not boring you - but who knows? I never get any feedback :( I need reviews to know what you like and what you don't, so please, take a minute and write down what you think...**

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